Captum Ante
by Mattwho81
Summary: On a lost and forgotten world a lone Space Marine is captured by an ignorant and suspicious military force. Bereft of aid and his Brothers can this lone warrior survive? This Story is a sequel to my previous story Saeva Abyssi.
1. Chapter 1

**Storm Heralds Reading List**

 **Book 1** Maledicti Venator, Serrati Stellas, Tenebris Resurget, Finis Fide, In Tergum Cultro, Omni Honore, Carpe Posterum, Vacuus Cymba, Noctem Oritur.

 **Book2** Umbram Ignis, Ancra Mortis, Fame Cimex, Crux Lapis, Seava Abyssi

 **Captum Ante: Chapter 1**

 **997.M41**

It was going to rain, that was what Kommandant Renhardt thought to himself as he stood looking up at the thick heavy clouds. It was going to rain and spoil everything, just as they had finished all their preparations and got dressed up in their formal blues. Renhardt was an ageing officer, long past his prime and with short grey hair. His face was lined with endless cares and old woes, but he retained a straight spine and there was yet muscle under his uniform. He was stood in his long formal frock, the one he despised with the hanging coattails but he had to look presentable.

Renhardt's eye roamed his surroundings, taking in a squat and unlovely military base. It was a collection of concrete buildings, looking dull in the grim light conditions. There were the usual barracks, communications buildings, observations posts, messes, armouries and training courses one would expect of a military camp. All set within a barbed wire perimeter and overlooked by machine gun towers. Yet there were also several larger buildings scattered around, the kind the Soldats had quickly learned not to ask questions about. In fact this entire facility was hush-hush, the kind of place whose existence the government in faraway Konningsberg categorically denied. The base was set high in the Central Mountains, where civilians were encouraged not to go and from here one could see all the way down to the lush farm belt that was the heart of Nordlund. Nordlund, the greatest nation on Camollum, undisputed powerhouse and leader of the Northern League.

Kommandant Renhardt was the senior officer overseeing this base and all the personnel within. Personnel who were currently lined up along the concrete driveway, awaiting the arrival of two very special guests. Renhardt looked them over, the Soldats were stood in proud lines, dress uniforms clean and well pressed, with their rapid-firing Blunderbusses held upright before them. However the civilian Technologists and Mechanikers were more slovenly, slouched in small groups and whispering to each other. Renhardt had never understood how civilians could let themselves get so fat and lazy, but in truth they were the reason this whole base existed and without them the work would never be completed.

Renhardt sighed, "They're late."

From beside him a thin, weasely voice said, "It is a long way from Konnigsberg."

Renhardt glanced to his side, seeing his adjutant, Kaptin Gobels, standing straight in his own dress blues. Renhardt bit back on the instinct to snap back at him, the man was an odious brown-nosing little weasel. The man had been assigned to Renhardt purely to negotiate the mountain of paperwork that never seemed to stop building up. A pen-pusher playing at being a Soldat, whose rank was bestowed purely to keep the junior officers from disrespecting him.

Renhardt diplomatically commented, "It's not like First-Marshal Urkle to be late."

Gobels replied, "Maybe Vice-Chancellor Donner had some important business to take care of."

Renhardt couldn't help but spit, "Donner, he's one slimy piece of work. I know he was behind the last bloody push to take the Monroe islands and I hear he's cajoling Kongress for another go."

Gobels looked offended as he said, "But the Monroe islands were stolen from us. We can't let those redskins usurp our lands!"

Renhardt sighed and said, "The Southern Concordance has held those islands for two hundred years and every attempt to reclaim them has ended in abject failure. Seven times Nordlund armies have gone forth and seven times it has ended in a bloodbath. Vice-Chancellor Donner doesn't care though, not when he has voters to appease. Dead martyrs look better in the newspapers than boys living in peace."

From the other side of him a voice said, "You don't think that they've forgotten the visit?"

Renhardt was glad of the interruption and looked over, seeing a man in a white coat standing there. This was Herman von-Grod, chief Mechaniker of this base and the genius whose intellect was pushing their research forward. He was a thin man with wild hair and he was smoking an iho-stick, despite Renhardt's firm admonition not to.

Renhardt sighed at the absent-minded technologist's habit and answered, "No, they haven't forgotten."

Gobels wondered, "Maybe they didn't believe our report."

Von-Grod nearly dropped his iho-stick and said, "Impossible, what we found was too important to ignore. They have to see it for themselves!"

"Don't worry," declared Renhardt, "Here they come."

Beyond the outer wire a convoy of vehicles was coming into view over the crest of the hill, churning up dust from the gravel road. They swiftly approached and passed through the checkpoints at the gate, revving their black-smoke producing engines as they did so, leaving a cloud of gasoline exhaust in their wakes. In the lead were a pair of motorbikes, with the stars and bars of Nordlund flying on pennants behind them. Then came four long staff-cars with blacked out windows and at the rear another pair of bikes.

Kommandant Renhardt waited as the convoy approached, spewing clouds of fossil-fuel exhaust. Renhardt stood proudly, waiting for the guards to disembark first but was surprised when the men stepping out turned out not to be Soldats but rather men in black suits. They stepped out lightly but with strength and speed bunched in their muscles. They wore civilian garb but the lining was broken by the tell-tale signs of concealed pistols. They were the Kongressional guards and they shouldn't have been here.

Renhardt muttered, "Oh... this is bad."

Von-Grod stubbed out his iho-stick under his heel and said, "How so?"

"Just look," said Renhardt as two more men alighted from the vehicles.

The first was a fat man, in a brown suit with ridiculously long-coattails trailing behind and a white moustache, which must have taken careful waxing and grooming. He was carrying a large briefcase which was handcuffed to his wrist but otherwise he was the familiar face from the newspapers. This was Vice-Chancellor Donner as expected, yet the second man was not the First-Marshal. This man was stick thin, and wore a tightly-buttoned long coat; he was a bald man and he wore darkly tinted glasses even in the dim light.

"Who is that?" asked Von-Grod.

"That," muttered Renhardt, "That is Herr Neadler, Director of the Psychic Intervention Agency, Minister for Truth and commander of the Sturmtruppes."

"P.I.A." stammered Gobels nervously, "The P.I.A. are here?"

"Seems they did take our report seriously," stated Renhardt.

The two men approached, surrounded by the Kongressional guards. They strode straight up to the waiting officers who saluted as protocol demanded. Renhardt was about to welcome them but Donner got there first and spat, "Well Kommandant, this is a fine mess you've stirred up."

Renhardt was instantly reminded why he disliked this man so much but he politely nodded and said, "Welcome Herr Donner, Director Neadler, thank you for coming. May I present…"

He was cut off as Neadler stated, "I know who you all are… let's not waste crucial time."

Renhardt felt a shiver run down his spine but said, "Very well, if you will follow me. Soldats dismissed."

The waiting crowds broke up as Renhardt led the party towards a tall building, one of those that people weren't supposed to ask about. He led them straight into the gloomy dark and said, "Did you read the report on our discovery?"

Donner replied, "Yes, and I for one thought you had lost your mind. The Chancellor hardly believed it either."

"Neither did we when we found it," replied Renhardt, "But I can't deny my own eyes."

He led them within the gloomy interior which opened up to become a large hanger. Within that space was a towering object, it was vaguely ovoid in form but with large doors that had opened up to make it look like a flower in bloom. The bottom half was scorched black but the top half was distinctly blue. The inside was strange too, fitted with odd devices and what looked like restraints, but the bars were too widely placed: no normal man could hope to use them.

Donner walked around the strange object, gazing in wonder and said, "What is it?"

Renhardt replied, "We're not sure, we've never seen anything like it."

Neadler stated, "The more important question is, where did you find it?"

Von-Grod answered, "As you know we here were tasked with developing the next-generation of rockets to carry Atomonic bombs, and may I say despite the Southern Concordance having quite a lead on us we are making good progress. Anyway we were setting up for our next test launch when the high-altitude radar detected something coming down: straight down."

Renhardt took up the narrative saying, "I sent out some Soldats to investigate and they found this in a crater… along with a passenger."

"Yes the passenger," stated Neadler, "Are you saying that the Concordance has built a rocket capable of carrying a man into space?"

"That was my first fear too," replied Renhardt, "But the passenger was very odd, not quite normal. Maybe if you examined the artefacts we found then you would understand our concerns."

He led them over to a table and Von-Grod lighted another iho-stick as he did so. The Mechaniker waved at various objects and said, "We have no idea what most of these things do but they are obviously advanced. The material components are made out of some form of super-hard ceramic, stronger than steel but half the weight. Even the genuine metal isn't anything we recognise, some form of plastek-metal hybrid, which I would have sworn was an impossible combination."

Donner poked what looked like an enormous Blunderbuss with a finger and said, "The Concordance has this kind of technology?"

"No," answered Von-Grod, "This is totally beyond them too."

Neadler eyed them suspiciously and said, "I hope you're not suggesting this came from the stars, have you been turned by Concordance propaganda?"

"No sir!" leapt in Gobels, "Better dead than Red!"

"Good," stated Donner firmly, "Reason tells us that life exists only here on Camollum and for three hundred years that has been the bedrock of Nordlund's beliefs. The idea of our ancestors coming here from some mythical place called Terra is just a Southern fallacy, as is their laughable belief in an Emperor of Mankind and a star-spanning Imperium."

Neadler broke in to say, "Was the passenger alive?"

Renhardt answered, "He was practically dead when they brought him in but his recovery has been remarkable. He's fit enough to talk."

Neadler stated, "Then bring him to us."

Renhardt waved a couple of guards to go fetch the stranger and after a few minutes they reappeared. Emerging into the space were a half-dozen Soldats, each one broad and tall, yet the prisoner between them made them look like puny weaklings. Shuffling along in thick, heavy chains was a being in a prisoner's loincloth, with his head lowered to stare at his feet.

He was inhumanly broad and almost seven foot tall, swollen with grotesque muscles that spoke of immense power in his body. Yet across his chest was an odd black layer, like a carapace of dark skin, dotted with penetrating metal plugs. His skin was covered in old scars and burns, and judging by their size and positioning most of the wounds should have killed a normal man.

The Soldats brought the prisoner to an exposed metal chair and made him sit down, chaining his manacles to the ground. Renhardt sat down across from him, followed by Donner and Neadler. They took in the odd prisoner, this peculiar being from who knows where. Then the prisoner raised his eyes and the look in them immediately set everybody on edge. It was not the gaze of a captive nor that of someone who had recently been on the edge of death. It was focussed, honed and hungry, like a hunting predator sizing up big game. Despite being surrounded by Soldats the prisoner still gave off the impression of being the most dangerous individual in the room.

Renhardt had the uncomfortable feeling that his six guards were not nearly enough but he refused to be cowed. He had served Nordlund all his life and fought in wars almost forgotten by most. He drew himself up and stared back at the prisoner as he said, "Okay son, you know the drill: let's have your name, rank and serial number."

The prisoner's lip twitched and then he spoke, it was a strange accent, thick and akin to the old tongue. With a feral snarl the captive spat out, "Battle-Brother Jediah, Third Company, Storm Heralds Chapter."


	2. Chapter 2

**Captum Ante: Chapter 2**

In the hanger the various dignitaries were sitting across from the strange captive, watching him as he talked. It was an odd sight, the prisoner being hunched over by his chains but somehow still impressively powerful. He was surrounded by Soldats but still a potent threat despite that.

The prisoner had called himself Jediah and he was speaking in his thick accent. Kommandant Renhardt listened intently, drinking in every word, "My ship was making a journey through the Warp but something went wrong. We were caught in a squall and thrown off course, forced to make an emergency real-space translation. It was rough, the ship was breaking up around us, fires on every deck and vacuum breaches venting the crew."

Mechaniker Von-Grod leaned forward and said, "You speak about space like it was a sea, but the void isn't like that at all."

Jediah shrugged, making his chains rattle and said, "The Warp is the warp."

Kommandant Renhardt didn't understand what that was meant to mean but decided to move on and said, "So how did you survive?"

Jediah explained, "I was in the drop-pod bay, orientating some Scout-novices. An explosion came out of nowhere and I was thrown into a drop-pod. The violence must have awakened its machine spirit because it ejected me out into space. The next thing I knew your men were dragging me out of its shell."

Vice-Chancellor Donner leaned forward, the briefcase cuffed to his wrist dragging slightly as he said, "You haven't explained: where are you from?"

Jediah answered, "I am from a world called Lujan II, it's further up the Saint Karyl Trail, as one heads towards Terra."

"Terra!" spat Donner, "That's just a southern fallacy, life exists here on Camollum and nowhere else! We don't listen to superstitions here in the Northern League. We stand for reason, science and democracy!"

Jediah played with his chains and said, "I don't know anything about your world or your beliefs. This world was lost to a Warp-storm three hundred years ago, the Imperium has made no contact since."

"Three hundred years?" mused Von-Grod thoughtfully, "That is as far back as our records stretch, everything before was lost in the fall of the First Kingdom."

Donner didn't sound so convinced as he said, "Don't muddy the issue with old myths and ancient history. Admit it, you're working for the Caliph, you're a spy!"

Jediah spread his hands as much as his chains allowed and pleaded, "I don't know who that is, I am a servant of the Emperor. A warrior of the Adeptus Astartes."

Kaptain Gobels spoke up mockingly to declare, "Now I know your joking. If you're an Astartes then where are your wings? Where are your harp and halo?"

Jediah shook his head and said, "I'm telling you the truth, this is all an accident."

Suddenly Director Neadler leaned forwards and hissed accusingly, "You're lying!"

Jediah frowned and said, "I assure you I'm telling the truth."

Neadler peered over his tinted glasses and declared, "Oh, you're good… you've clearly had mental training. Someone has meticulously resculpted your mind, I've never felt blocks so strong, but for all that you're still a blunt. I can feel the deceptions radiating off you, the half-truths and misdirection's you weave. You're trying to hide it but I can see that you came here with a purpose."

Jediah's mood instantly shifted and his face transformed into a feral mask of anger, gone was the reasonable persona and in its place was a murderer, filled with violent rage. Everybody started in shock and the Soldats put hands on their pistols as the giant warrior hollered, "Witch!"

Renhardt had heard the term before; it was a word from the old tongue, used by people who feared and hated that which they didn't understand. The term itself was a relic, from a less enlightened age, but the warrior made it a curse and pronouncement of doom all in one. The vehemence and hate laced into that one word made Renhardt's heart flutter and he had to leap up to stop the Soldats drawing weapons, shouting, "Hold your fire!"

Neadler brushed off his long coat and said, "Gentlemen, a word."

Everybody hurried away and Donner was the first to speak saying, "We can't let this get out, even if it is all a pack of lies it will spread discord and alarm. Nordlund can't afford that right now, not with the Caliph preparing the Concordance for war."

Neadler agreed and said, "This is not the time for complicated truths, Kongress doesn't like inconvenient facts, they want something good that they can tell the people."

Renhardt asked, "So what do we tell the Chancellor?"

Neadler thought about it then said, "It's well known that the Caliph has long wanted his own version of our Sturmtruppes. We tell them that we found evidence he's succeeded and sent one man to try to infiltrate our top-secret base and spy on our research."

Von-Grod queried, "What about the artefacts?"

Neadler answered, "Pack them up, well take them with us, maybe we can find discern their secrets."

Von-Gord looked disappointed but wasn't about to argue with the commander of the P.I.A. and the feared Sturmtruppe. Renhardt however wasn't satisfied and said, "What about the prisoner?"

Donner stated, "Get rid of him."

Renhardt was angered by the casual way he dismissed a warrior's life and said, "What, just give him an iho-stick before standing him before a firing squad?"

Donner shrugged and said, "This is a complication we don't need, not in an election year. The Dixiecrat-party is leading in the opinion polls and you know they're a lot of damned appeasers, so pink they're practically red."

Renhardt was about to protest but Neadler stepped in and said, "I know it's hard for you, a Soldat's honour and all that, but for Nordlund it as to be done. Your due to retire next year but I could have a quiet word with the Chancellor and see if we can move that up. I'm sure you would like to see more of your family…"

Renhardt clamped his mouth shut; the Director had clearly done his research. A lifetime of service had left his children practically strangers to him and he had barely seen his grandchildren, honour and duty were a hollow second compared to family. Besides, a small voice whispered to him, if he refused the prisoner would probably have an 'accident' on the way back to Konnigsberg anyway. He reluctantly nodded and said, "Soldat's! Take the prisoner back to his cell."

The guards obeyed, unshackling Jediah and leading him out. They all watched him shuffle off then Donner rubbed his wrist, where the handcuff was chaffing and said, "Do you have anywhere I could lock this up, being Vice-Chancellor has its perks but the tradition of having to lug these documents around everywhere is not one of them."

"Of course," replied Renhardt, "There's a safe in my office, Kaptin Gobels will show you the way."

As his adjutant lead the politician out the Kommandant saw the Mechanikers begin to pack the various artefacts into crates. Renhardt set off, walking slowly as he exited the hanger, leaving Neadler behind to supervise. Renhardt walked out of the hanger, seeing various Soldats at work and he couldn't help but be struck by how young they all looked.

Kommandant Renhardt had worn the blue proudly for decades, serving Nordlund heart and soul. And yet now at the end of his career he found himself wondering what had he accomplished? For centuries the Northern League had been feuding with the Southern Concordance and yet in the last few decades they had seen serious reversals. Despite being a repressive theocracy the Concordance kept achieving amazing advances in technology, leapfrogging Nordlund's greatest minds. In brush-fire wars and minor local conflicts the Redskins kept gaining the upper hand, turning Camollum's numerous smaller nations to their cause and pushing back the borders of the Northern League.

Renhardt was keenly aware that he wouldn't live to see an end to this cycle of wars and neither would these Soldats. What was really worrying him though was that his two grandsons were growing up; soon they would be old enough for the draft. Old enough to be sent to fight and die in some hellish jungle or for a worthless mile of mud.

Renhardt's heart was growing heavy; he had seen too much death in one life. All he really wanted now was to retire and go home to try to patch things up with his family and to watch his grandchildren grow. Which was why it was so sad that he now had to sign an execution order, but he wouldn't do that without knowing he had tried everything else first.

Renhardt's path took him up to the detention block, a small and squat building which saw little use save for the occasional Soldat who got out of hand. He passed through the wooden doors and was confronted by a guard, who saluted him. He was forced to stop here and be searched but he refrained from using his rank to bypass security: it was good to see the Soldat's following proper protocol. After a minute Renhardt was waved through, passing another guard to enter a long cell-block. There were a score of cells set to the left; each behind a grid of wrought-iron bars. While to the right there was a path, with a clearly marked yellow line defining the reach of any prisoner. However before one cell there was an extra red line, set even further back, the captive clearly making the guards nervous.

Renhardt walked up to the red line and stopped, looking within the cell. Before him Jediah was sat with his back against a wall, he was in profile with his knees drawn up and his hands clasping his chains before him. The prisoner's head was down, staring at his feet and he was mindlessly working his jaw in frustration.

Renhardt sighed at the forlorn sight and said, "I'm here to tell you that you are to be executed at first light."

Jediah didn't respond, merely staring at his feet and working his jaw. Renhardt recognised the look of a man who knew he was doomed and threw him a lifeline saying, "It doesn't have to be this way, just give me something useful I can take to the others. Something that they can understand."

Jediah was silent, gripping his chains in his huge hands and Renhardt barked, "Don't you hear me, you are going to be stood before a firing squad and killed! Do you want to die? If you don't work with me there's nothing I can do for you."

No response was forthcoming and Renhardt reluctantly stepped back from the red line. It was sad to see any man resigned to his death but the Kommandant was committed to this grim duty. Renhardt walked back along the line of cells to the waiting Soldats but there he paused. He faced the guards and said, "Nobody comes in here, nobody is to speak or communicate with the prisoner. Make sure he gets a last meal though, I won't deny any man that right."

With that the Kommandant stepped out of the cell block leaving the guards to wait for the door to slam, then they lent back and pulled out some iho-sticks. They lit up and settled down to wait out the long night in the manner common to guards across the galaxy, by griping about absolutely everything.

Back in his cell Jediah waited, patiently chewing his jaw over and over, his transhuman hearing letting him discern every mutter of the guard's bellyaching. Slowly Jediah's head rose and his hands parted, revealing the chain between them. It was corroded and worn, the metal links half-dissolved by what should have been many year's worth of corrosion. Jediah lifted the chain up to his mouth and began to chew once more and as he did so a hissing acidic drool leaked from his lips to bubble on the concrete. It was a shame that the Soldats of Nordlund had never heard of a Betcher's Gland, nor the acidic salvia it produced, otherwise they would have known that mere iron was no obstacle to an Astartes.

Jediah relentlessly chewed at his bonds, working the softened metal with his teeth. At this rate his arms would be free in less than an hour, another to free his legs and then all he needed to do would be to kill the guards and get out of this cell.

Then freedom beckoned.


	3. Chapter 3

**Captum Ante Chapter 3**

In the silence of his cell Jediah waited, utterly still and poised. He was stood against the wall across from the bars of his cell, hands held before him as his eyes scoured the surroundings, taking in every detail. As he waited he patiently tensed each muscle of his body one by one, keeping him taught and alert.

His vigil was interrupted by the noise of boots approaching; bringing him his supposed last meal. The pair of guards walked up to the red line, bearing a metal tray of bland foodstuffs. Their eyes widened to see Jediah stood there, but before they could speak his hands blurred. Jediah had managed to free himself from his chains but that had left him with a pile of pliable metal to work with. His immense strength had made it child's play to bend the links, turning them into sharp metal darts. Now he threw them underarm with preternatural speed and accuracy.

Jediah had a choice of targets, his enhanced hand-to-eye coordination making it simply a matter of choosing. The hearts would be difficult for such crude tools to reach. Alternatively the femoral and carotid arteries would result in certain death, but it would be drawn out and noisy, amusing but counter-productive. So instead Jediah targeted the larynxes, hitting both guards' dead on in their throats.

The guards collapsed in quivering but silent heaps, bewilderment written all over their faces as they slipped into death. Jediah would have liked to savour this moment but time was against him and he needed to move. The Astartes stepped up to the bars of his cage door and placed his hands upon them, exerting his immense strength. The builders of this prison were reasonably competent, no mortal could have escaped this way but the cage had never been tested against a Space Marine. Jediah's muscles bulged like melons and sweat beaded his arms as a grunt escaped his lips, then the door popped out of its runners and came free.

Jediah set the door aside and stepped out, passing the cooling bodies of the guards. He paused to relieve the guards of their combat knives, which looked small and diminutive in his hands. Then he quickly made his way to the outer door of the gaol, peering through a window to assess his surroundings. Beyond the door the camp had fallen under the cover of night, and the stars shone overhead. No military base was ever truly unguarded, but there would be far fewer people out and about. Jediah immediately slipped out the door, making his way from shadow to shadow. It had been a long time since he had been in the Scout Company, but the basics of stealth and secrecy were never forgotten once learned. The wind caressed his exposed skin and the cold mountain air brushed his limbs but he ignored such sensations, his focus must be nothing less than total now.

Jediah made his way through the camp, avoiding the regular but ultimately predictable patrols by the local guards. To his right was the barbed wire perimeter and beyond that the mountains, but Jediah didn't go right he went left, deeper into the camp. He had come here with a purpose and couldn't leave until he had completed his mission, which required him to reach the Kommandant's office.

Jediah slipped along in the shadows, passing all manner of personnel and guards without disturbing a single one. Without the bulk and heft of his power armour, an Astartes could be surprisingly stealthy. Over the last few days Jediah had compiled a mental map of the base, the infrequent trips between the infirmary and the prison more than enough for his Transhuman brain to sketch out the basics. So he followed a circuitous route, between kitchens and barracks, that eventually led him to an administration block.

Here he paused, lurking in a shadow as a pair of guards stopped to light up some of those iho-sticks that everybody on this misbegotten planet seemed to be addicted to. Jediah snarled to himself, this was slovenly discipline that would never be tolerated in his own Chapter and his respect for the locals fell. Jediah considered just killing these two; it would be an easy matter. He could leap out and snap one's neck with a lateral blow, then turn and grab the other one. He could then crush the fool's skull in one hand or shatter the ribcage to stop the heart or tear out the throat with his teeth to taste the rich life-blood.

Jediah realised that he was grinning to himself and shook off the instinct; it would be careless and sloppy of him to leave a trail of bodies behind. Jediah was not like his brethren, he had no use for honour or pride. Let others worry about being heroes; he simply relished the fight itself and the killing. Unlike most Astartes Jediah saw himself merely as a weapon, built to destroy anything that threatened Terra's rule. Yet the Chapter had impressed upon him the critical need for discipline and professionalism; he was no blood-mad Khorne Berserker. Jediah was determined to be the best warrior that he could be, which required precision and exact skill. Though in his heart of hearts he confessed that a touch of glory would be nice, just once or twice.

Eventually the guards moved on and Jediah slipped into the administration block, finding it to be deserted and dark just as expected. However here he faced a problem, he had never been inside this building and did not know which one was the office he needed. Jediah paused and closed his eyes, stretching out his Transhuman hearing and listening for any signs. Then he heard it, a single cough from a plain door not too far away.

Jediah stalked up to the door, listening for any sounds from within. His Transhuman hearing detected the noises of shuffling paper and that of soft breathing, a weak raspy noise layered with a hoarse cough that hinted of a carcinogenic lung-tumour. Jediah knew that speed was of the essence so he bunched his muscles and leapt through the door.

On the other side he found an outer office area, with one wall made up of frosted glass panels. Set in this room was a desk at which was sat an elderly woman, with grey hair and a pair of half-moon glasses. The woman looked up from her piles of documentation and her eyes widened at the sight of the half-naked Transhuman standing in the doorway with murder in his eyes. Her jaw dropped and she drew in a breath to scream but Jediah was faster. He leapt right at her, clamping his huge hand over her mouth and ramming one stolen blade into her heart. The woman shook and convulsed in his arms for a second and Jediah enjoyed the look of confusion and denial on her face, then her eyes glazed over and she fell still.

This had taken barely a few seconds but the noise of the scuffle must have drawn some attention for there was a man's voice and a door opened in the frosted glass wall. Jediah was already moving, barrelling towards the door even as it swung open. As he charged his mind was processing the sight of a man in uniform, the one the locals had called Gobels. With Transhuman speed Jediah evaluated the threat, the man's arms were soft and his pistol still in its holster: this was no true warrior merely a quill-pusher playing at being a soldier.

Before Gobels could even finish opening the door Jediah slammed into him, knocking him back with sheer bulk and force. As the mortal fell back Jediah's hand fell down in a short sharp chop, catching the man on the shoulder and shattering his clavicle with a dull snap. Gobels fell down with a scream but Jediah was already scouring the room, looking for his true target.

Behind a thick wooden desk another man was sat, with a glass of some dark, smoky liquor held in a fat hand. It was Vice-Chancellor Donner and his mouth was agape at the sight of the giant warrior who had appeared from nowhere in the Kommandant's office. Before the mortal could process the sight Jediah raced towards him grabbing him by the throat in his massive fist and slamming him against the nearest wall.

Donner thrashed and clawed at Jediah's arm but he was as helpless as a kitten compared to the Astartes' gene-forged strength. Donner gasped for air and squealed, "No, no, no! How can you be here? Why are you here?"

Jediah leaned in and growled, "I am here for you."

"Me?!" wailed Donner as his face turned red.

"Yes," hissed Jediah, "The Imperium has been watching your world for some time; we knew that a man from the stars would summon someone important."

"A trap," squeaked Donner, "Please, please don't kill me. I will tell you whatever you want to know."

Jediah grinned evilly and said, "I do not require you to speak."

Jediah closed his grip a hairsbreadth and Donner went silent, unable to breathe. Jediah drank in the sight; taking his time and watching the man first turn purple and then grey. It wasn't a quick death but Jediah had been restrained so far and was now in the mood to indulge himself.

Eventually Donner fell limp in death, voiding his bowels as corpses do. Jediah sniffed and then carefully laid the body out on the desk. He took a moment to recant certain meme-doctrines implanted in his subconscious and then he brought his knife up and in one movement scalped the body, revealing the brain. Jediah leaned in and opened his mouth, taking a huge bite of the brain and swallowing it. Grey neural matter stained his lips and hideous fluids ran down his chin, making him a macabre sight. It was a grizzly ritual and would horrify any mortal, but it was not without a specific purpose.

Among the many implants a Space Marine received was the Omophagea, a tiny organ that allowed an Astartes to absorb information from consumed organic matter. It was barely understood, even by the Astartes themselves, but in the right circumstance could be invaluable. Jediah felt a rush of experiences filling his mind, a series of flashing images that his hypno-indoctrination stored in various subconscious boxes for later examination.

The Omophagea's operation was mysterious and vague; Jediah could not for instance draw out specific battle-plans and troop dispositions from the memories. Yet he could gain an insight into the enemy's cultural zeitgeist, an instinctive understanding of what the foe considered important. What they would fight to the death to protect, what it would take to make them surrender and the kind of places they would think to hide their secrets.

Jediah hastily devoured the brain and stepped back in satisfaction but he was distracted by a whimpering from the floor. He glanced to the side and saw Gobels still sitting upon the floor, clasping his wounded arm to his chest and urinating upon himself in horror at what he had just witnessed. Jediah turned to finish him off but Gobels cried, "No, don't kill me, don't eat my brain! I can help you, if you let me live I can give you everything you want!"

Jediah paused and then said, "How?"

Gobels nodded towards a safe set in the corner and said, "The Vice-Chancellor's documents, key strategic intel. He has to keep it with him at all times, it's the law."

Jediah considered this, he had come for strategic intel and got it, but this was so much more. If he acquired this then he would be feted by his Chapter and covered in glory. Jediah grabbed the cowering man who cried in pain but he ignored it and threw the man at the large safe. Gobels hastily spun a large dial to specific numbers, the safe opened and Jediah leaned in to grab a thick binder full of papers. He thumbed through it, it didn't make any sense to him but the Chapter had serf-savants who specialised in such matters.

From the floor Gobels sobbed and pleaded, "I gave you what you wanted, now you have to let me live. That was the deal right, I help you and you let me live."

Jediah lips drew back over his stained teeth; he leaned down with his knife in hand and stared into the man's eyes as he hissed, "I don't recall ever agreeing to that."


	4. Chapter 4

**Captum Ante Chapter 4**

Jediah crouched at in the doorway to the administration block, checking that the coast was clear. He clutched the stolen documents tightly as he peered out into the gloomy night. Intermittent lamp poles created islands of light amid pools of darkness, revealing wandering guard patrols, but they were moving idly and seemed to be on a low alert.

Jediah slipped out of the door and made his way to the building across the way, keeping to the darkness and avoiding the islands of light. He had left a slaughterhouse behind him, the bodies of the locals cooling as they died. Jediah had enjoyed killing them; the exultation of exercising his overwhelming superiority over mortals always stirred his hearts. Yet the deed had been neither frivolous nor superfluous, those people were witnesses to his escape and would raise an alarm. Their deaths had been necessary and entirely in keeping with the Codex Astartes, at least in letter if not in spirit.

Jediah wasted no more thought upon this was he crept along, time was against him and he needed to make his escape rapidly before the bodies were discovered. He slipped through the base, avoiding patrols and sneaking past idle guards. At one point he ghosted past an occupied barracks, filled with the noises of men off-duty and relaxing. He could hear their banter and the clink of drinks bottles as they unwinded.

Jediah found this attitude bemusing; he had never seen men so complacent and unworried. The Forty-first millennium was a time of ruin and devastation, there was no peace among the stars only an eternity of war. And yet this little planet had sat alone and isolated for three hundred years, unmolested by Xeno invaders, Daemonic incursions, mutant uprisings or insane rogue psykers. Even their planet-wide civil war was a genteel and quaint affair, compared to most Imperial conflicts. It was an odd island of peace in a galaxy of war and the Imperium was determined to find out why this was so.

Surreptitiously Jediah made his way back to the hanger where his drop-pod and gear were stored, intending to retrieve his equipment and make his escape. He had brought vox-gear, det-cords, auspexs, various tools, a stalker-pattern bolter and a suit of light Scout-armour. Not his usual attire but his heavy plate would have sent up warning flares, rather than draw out the target as intended. Plus it required teams of Serfs to fit the layers of fibre-bundle muscles, exoskeleton and Ceramite plates, something he did not have right now.

Jediah ghosted closer to the hanger but was brought up short when he saw bustles of activity occurring around the main entrance. Teams of men were bringing out crates of boxes in long lines, often working in pairs to lift the weighty packages. These were being loaded onto a pair of Cargo-8's, which were rumbling to themselves as their engines spewed fossil-fuel exhaust. Overseeing all this was a ring of guards, who were holding primitive stubber weapons to their chests. Stubbers, Jediah thought, what kind of primitive back-water didn't possess the technical skills to produce even something as basic and elementary as a Las-gun?

Jediah cursed to himself at the sight, he had counted upon the locals leaving his gear where it was until morning but it seemed that they were unwilling to wait. Jediah had made an assumption and as Sergeant Furion was fond of lecturing, assumptions were the well-spring of mistakes. Jediah considered his options; he could try a full frontal assault, relying upon surprise and shock to carry the day. Even without his power armour his gene-forged strength and ferocity would see him slaughter many. None would be able to stand against him and he could leave a trail of bleeding corpses in his wake, he could stand upon a pile of skulls and roar his fury to the sky.

Jediah dismissed the notion with some reluctance; one Space Marine was a match for a score of mortals in a straight up fight but the odds were far steeper than that and the mission required him to escape. He toyed with the idea of slipping around the back and trying to find another way in but there were no guarantees that they would be unguarded and it was only a matter of time until the bodies of his victims were found. Jediah took a moment to review the Codex Astartes, and then he whispered, "Walls, sensors and guards are not true obstacles: lack of imagination and adaptability are true obstacles."

Jediah abandoned his attempts to retrieve his equipment, he would pay penance for losing a good Bolter but that was secondary to the mission. He ghosted away from the hanger, leaving the men unaware that they had been observed. He moved away into the night, looking for an alternative. He soon approached a vehicle park, filled with cold transports and Cargo-8's. These had been left idle and Jediah quickly searched a few. He was rewarded for his labours with a coil of rope, a discarded magazine showing picts of young women (wearing far too few clothes for this cold altitude) some metal wire and a leather knapsack.

Jediah scooped this up eagerly and slipped his stolen documents inside, the straps barely fit over his shoulders but it nestled smoothly against his spine, freeing his hands. Then he made a belt of the rope and placed his knives and the wire in it, the magazine he discarded. Stupid thing, he thought, what possible use could a soldier have for such a redundant item?

Jediah moved on, passing various vehicles and soon discovered a quartet of tanks, some local machines with caterpillar tracks, sloped armour and a small turret. The machines lacked sponson weapons and the turret weapon was small in calibre, in Jediah's opinion a Predator Annihilator would carve these toys apart without taking a scratch. He considered taking one but dismissed it, they were too slow and obvious so he looked for something else.

His eyes roamed the vehicle park and then he spied a pair of flying machines. They were squat, rounded and broad, sitting on a pair of skis with a small piston engine set above them. From this rose a pair of crossed wing-blades, which would spin to create lift and set back on a long tail was another wing-blade at a right angle. They somewhat resembled Imperial Ornithopters, but he doubted that they could fly in as varied planetary conditions as the revered STC design.

Jediah was tempted to take one of these machines; the idea of flying out of here was most attractive. He could soar away and leave all this behind, reaching freedom before the locals could respond. Then he shook his head in dismissal, those craft were unarmed, looked slow and would show up on every auspex for miles around. There was also the hiccup that he didn't know how to fly them.

Jediah returned to the idea of taking a tank and blasting his way out, but then he spotted something. Just ahead a guard tower was set up against the barbed wire perimeter, a wooden structure, twenty foot high with a searchlight and a heavy stubber nest on the top. It was just like every other one save that this one was set upon a slight hillock in the ground. The curvature of the mound created a small blind spot in the defence, one that this tower was obviously meant to correct. Yet if it was removed then there would be a narrow corridor of darkness outside the base.

Jediah instantly stalked forward, closing upon the guard post like a great cat hunting a rodent. His eyes swept the darkness looking for patrols or stragglers but found nothing. He quickly reviewed his observations of the patrol patterns and determined that he had over a minute before anybody came by, more than enough time. Jediah crept up to the guard post and saw a ladder set up against it. This he ignored, it was too obvious and would alert the guards that someone was coming. Instead he grasped the leg of the guard tower in his hands and began to climb. The pole was studded with sharp metal splinters, to prevent exactly this sort of approach, but Jediah ignored the tears and rip in his palms. It was only pain and that did not factor into his plans, so he dismissed it as irrelevant.

Jediah swiftly reached the top and paused below a short lintel. From within he heard three distinct breathing patterns, one guard to man the searchlight and two to operate the heavy stubber. They were stamping their feet and clapping their hands to ward off the chill mountain air, moaning about how they wished they were by the fire. Jediah slipped one hand up to grasp the lintel's edge and he tensed his muscles, then in one massive bound he swung himself up and over the edge.

The first guard never saw what killed him as a giant Transhuman warrior swung himself up into the nest, simultaneously kicking out with a bare foot. Jediah's foot caught the man in the back of the neck, snapping his spine and making him collapse bonelessly. The other two guards seemed shocked by Jediah's appearance and the Astartes took that moment of hesitation to stab out, plunging two massive fingers into the next guard's eyes, penetrating the brain and instantly killing him. The third guard opened his mouth to scream but Jediah closed his other hand into a fist and punched him square in the chest with all his might. Ribs shattered and collapsed inwards, penetrating the lungs and crushing the man's heart in a moment.

In but a few seconds Jediah had killed three trained soldiers, yet he did not stay to celebrate. Instead he leapt over the lintel and dove for the ground. For a long, long second he fell through the air, arms spinning for balance then his toes hit the dirt and he bounded forward, already running for all he was worth. With great strides Jediah pounded away into the night, running where he could not be observed. He raced away without looking back, knowing that it was only a matter of time until his actions were discovered.

He dashed away from the base, then when he was beyond observation range he swerved to the left, heading uphill towards the nearby mountains and the forests that covered their lower reaches. Running barefoot Jediah set a pace that a human athlete would have considered a sprint, but it was a pace that he knew he could sustain for hours, days if necessary. He bounded over rocks and dips in the land, never slowing and never looking back. Speed was everything now and he wasted no time at all.

Over the next ten minutes Jediah covered about four miles and he was just seeing the first glimpses of trees ahead of him when he heard a loud mechanical wailing from behind him, shattering the still night air. The darkness lit up as stabbing lights speared upwards and there was a great calamity of noise as men shouted and alarms screeched. Jediah knew that his kills must have been discovered and that even now the locals would be sweeping the base looking for him. He wasn't concerned though, it would take them time to figure out which way he had gone and no mortal could match his pace. As long as he stayed away from roads and under the cover of the trees they would never find him.

Then his confidence was shattered as he heard the distinct yapping of mastiffs, his Transhuman hearing even picking out their numbers. He cursed to himself for there was nothing he could do to disguise his scent and they would inevitably pick up his trail. With vox-sets to relay his position the locals would get ahead of him and cut off his escape route. Jediah didn't stop running but he reviewed his situation, he was practically naked, armed only with a couple of knives and alone in hostile territory without support. He was also massively outnumbered by a hostile enemy army who completely outgunned him, so escape was not an option and neither was hiding. The odds against survival were hilariously low.

Fortunately the Astartes had tried and tested answer for such exactly these circumstances. When utterly outmatched and overwhelmed, a Space Marine always went on the offensive.

As he ran into the woods Jediah grinned, he was going to enjoy this.


	5. Chapter 5

**Captum Ante Chapter 5**

The woods rang with the sounds of men advancing and the darkness was pierced by the harsh lights of many torches. They shouted to each other as swept forward, keeping in a long line that spread out to cover miles. Amid their cries was the distinct yapping of Mastiffs, following the scent of their quarry with boundless energy. The men were alert and armed, they had heard that their comrades had been killed and they were confident that they would track down the murderer and bring him to justice.

They shouldn't have been so over-confident.

As the men ran through the forest one of them stepped on a pile of brambles, looking like just another part of the underbrush. Yet as soon as he put his weight upon it the brush collapsed under him, giving way to reveal a shallow pit, only a few feet deep. The man screamed as he dropped but then surprise turned to pain as he discovered that the pit was lined with sharpened stakes. The man dropped right onto them and one stabbed into his thigh, causing blood to flow.

Confusion reigned as men gathered around their stricken comrade, calling for help and medical aid, and as they did so a dark shadow over their heads detached itself from a tree. Hanging above their heads Brother Jediah moved, dropping a dozen feet to land on the balls of his toes without rustling so much as a leaf. It had been he who had laid this trap, shovelling out the earth with hands more effective than spades. The hard part had been finding just the right dip in the land but then all he had to do was deepen the pit, add some stakes and disguise it.

It wasn't a particularly good trap but it was the best he could do with his limited time, besides it was only intended as a distraction. As the men milled about the pit Jediah closed upon them, just another shadow in the dark. He was massively outnumbered but he didn't intend to kill all of them, not yet anyway. His target was the Mastiffs and their handlers. Jediah's stolen memories had proven useful already, telling him much about this culture. This particular breed of Mastiff was a war-dog, bred and trained for battle and to attack men in a rabid frenzy. Jediah's memories told him that to keep them in line this culture had determined that each Mastiff had to be hand-trained by a single handler, raised from a pup and obedient only to them and them alone.

Silently and without alerting anyone Jediah stalked up to the first handler, who was stood on the perimeter watching the rescue efforts. The Space Marine was utterly silent, not even the Mastiff aware, as he reached out from behind and then in one movement quickly snapped the man's neck. He propped the body against a tree then withdrew, leaving no one aware of his presence, then he circled around and did it again and again. In a couple of minutes Jediah had slain all the handlers, leaving the locals none the wiser. They soon learned though, when the Mastiffs realised that their handlers were dead. Following their instincts and training they went rabid, howling as they leapt at the nearest targets: the local soldiers.

Jediah stepped back and grinned as he saw the Mastiffs bounding onto the nearest men, biting and tearing with fang and claw. Men screamed and cried as the hounds tore at them, savagely clawing at their flesh. There was a minute of frantic fighting and then a series of sharp booms, as one man realised that the Mastiffs were beyond control and used his stubber to blast one down. Jediah had enjoyed seeing their desperate fight but he didn't stay for long, the hounds had been his primary threat. They were now dealt with, but there were still scores of men out there in the woods.

Swiftly he relocated, quickly finding another search party blundering through the forest, there were half a dozen of them, in a loose group to provide covering fire. They were good, trained and experienced, but they were no Astartes. They were calling to each other and sweeping the ground with hand-held torches. Jediah however needed no such implements, his gene-enhanced eyesight penetrating the darkness as easily as daylight. He stalked the party with ease, whom had no idea that they were no longer the hunters but now the prey.

Jediah waited for one of the group to fall slightly behind then he pounced, grabbing the man and clamping one vast hand over his mouth and nose. He lifted the man off the ground as the mortal kicked and thrashed in his grip, but Jediah held him firmly until the lack of air made him fall limply unconscious. Jediah carried the man away from his comrades, easily slipping ahead of them. He heard cries of alarm from behind him as the mortals realised one of them had simply disappeared but Jediah left them to their confusion, their panic and fear would serve his purposes well.

He quickly relocated to a tree he had selected earlier and uncoiled his rope, using it to tie the man upright to the trunk. Silently he slipped away, climbing the branches of another tree so he could observe proceedings. Here he collected an item he had made earlier, he had taken one of his knives, a short strong branch and the metal wire from the base and used it to create a crude spear. He gripped it in his left hand and the other knife in his right, as he patiently waited.

Sure enough, after a minute the mortal regained consciousness and began calling for help. The sound attracted the attention of several nearby parties and quickly a score of locals closed in, racing to help their lost friend. Jediah had been counting on this, his stolen memories telling him that this culture's military operated under a coda: Leave No Man Behind. It was an unbreakable creed to them, a virtue that nobody ever questioned but it was also a weakness. Jediah could discern a memory of an incident where forces had been diverted mid-battle to rescue one wounded man and dozens had died to preserve the life of one.

How polite and courteous this world's wars must be, thought Jediah, they had no concept of the carnage that reaved across the stars even now. The Imperium thought nothing of sending tens of thousands of men to die, little caring how they lived or died so long as the victory was theirs. Even now billions of soldiers were being sacrificed on the front-lines so that trillions of others could live. Savage Orks, rapacious Tyrannids, capricious Eldar, foul Traitors and unholy Daemons, any one of those would lay this world to waste. In a way, this planet was fortunate that the Imperium had found them first.

While Jediah had been waiting the crowd had been growing, men gathering round to free their lost comrade. When he was confident that he had drawn in as many as he could, Jediah leapt into action. He pushed out from the tree and dove for the ground, arms spread wide and knife and spear held in his grip. The first two men never knew what hit them, the giant Transhuman hitting them from above and plunging his weapons into their spines. The crowd gasped in horror and incomprehension, unable to grasp what was going on.

Jediah was already rising, moving with fluid grace. His right hand blurred and another man fell, with his throat gashed open to spray blood everywhere. Then Jediah spun on his heel and threw his spear, hitting another man at point-blank range. Driven by the inhuman strength of an Astartes the spear tore through the chest of the local and carried on, plunging into the belly of the man standing behind him.

The mortals froze in dread and terror, the giant warrior in their midst becoming an avatar of destruction in their minds. His size, his strength and his speed overwhelmed their comprehension and they stood dumbfound in shock. It was an effect Jediah had seen before, the Imperium even had a term for it: Transhuman Dread. Jediah took full advantage of this, leaping into action with his hands wrecking carnage. He punched and stabbed at frozen bodies, breaking torsos and ripping out veins and arteries. He kicked and hit and stamped and gorged making men fall in droves and in a few seconds their numbers had been halved.

Finally they responded, years of training telling them to get into the damn fight. One man aimed his stubber, and let off a trio of shots that caught Jediah in the back. The fat rounds slammed into his torso, one bouncing off his Black Carapace but the others penetrated, leaving gaping, bleeding holes in his torso. Jediah ignored this however, his body was built to take far worse and his implants were flooding him with so much hyper-adrenaline that he barely felt it. Jediah kicked out with a foot that shattered the man's pelvis and then turned and stabbed another man in the eye. The soldiers were dropping like flies around him and he exulted in the power at his command, the ability to kill anything he touched.

Soon only one man was left standing and Jediah swung a lazy backhand at him, intending to finish him off. Yet to his surprise the man ducked and the blow passed over his head. Jediah chided himself, that had been a poor blow which would have earned the stern condemnation of Chaplain Wrethan, had he been here to see it. Jediah realised that he had let his enjoyment of the fight make him become careless and sloppy. Mentally he condemned himself to three hours of self-flagellation when he returned, as a reminder that precision and exact skill were essential at all times.

Meanwhile the man had risen up, drawing his own knife from his belt. He snarled and beat his chest with a fist as he bellowed in defiance. Jediah raised an eyebrow; it seemed personal challenges were a hallmark of both their cultures. Jediah looked the man up and down, seeing that the local was well-muscled but not enough to slow him down and bore many scars of battle: a veteran warrior he concluded.

With a yell the man attacked, stabbing forward with eye-watering speed. It was a good blow, fast, certain and not at all showy or extravagant. The strike of a warrior who understood that the point of fighting was to kill the other guy, not bang up against his sword. The knife came right at Jediah's hearts and had he been mortal he would have died, but he was not, he was Astartes. Jediah's hand came up and caught the man by the wrist, stopping the blow and then he twisted and pulled. The soldier was yanked forward and before he could even blink he was run through with his own knife.

Jediah held the man for a moment and then he gently laid out the body. Jediah placed the man's knife in his hands and closed his eyes, honouring a warrior who had fought and died well, unlike his weak comrades. Jediah surveyed his work, a score of soldiers cut down in seconds. He bent to examine the bodies all around, finishing off the wounded and finding various odds and ends. He claimed a stubber weapon, a flimsy and short-ranged thing but better than what he already had. Then he found what he really sought and he smiled.

He spent a minute preparing the bodies and laying them according to his design. Then he heard the sounds of many more men approaching, so he stood up and retreated. Soon more soldiers appeared, drawn by the noise of the fighting. Scores of them barrelled into the clearing; calling out in challenge and surprise. They were horrified to find the remnants of the fight and one man carelessly reached down to turn over a fallen comrade. It was then that the locals discovered that Jediah had rigged the bodies with stick-grenades and that they now were standing amid a ring of explosives.

Jediah heard the noise of the detonations behind him and he smiled as he ran into the dark. He had punched a massive hole in the enemy line and wrecked panic and confusion. It would be a simple matter now to slip away and make good his escape.


	6. Chapter 6

**Captum Ante Chapter 6**

The clouds of yesterday were gone, replaced by a bright and glaring sun. The light bore down upon the Nordlund base, illuminating the Soldats as they ran to and fro. They were in a state of frantic activity, sending out search party after search party, to scour the mountains and avenge their dead. From the vehicle park a Flitzer arose, its rotating blades lifting it vertically before it angled forward and dashed away into the sky.

Watching all this from a window in the administration block Kommandant Renhardt observed the proceedings. He was only half paying attention though; the rest of his focus was on a large handset he had clamped to his ear. He was speaking intermittently to someone far away, "Yes I know I told you that I would come but something has come up… No, of course I want to be there for his name-day but… Look I don't have a choice; it's a classified matter… I'll make it up to him I promise… no don't hang up."

The voice at the other end cut off and Renhardt sighed, he replaced the handset on its cradle then he wearily sat down behind a desk and rubbed his eyes. From the door a voice came, "Problems?" The Kommandant looked up and saw Chief Mechaniker Von-Grod standing there, peering in with an iho-stick hanging from his mouth. Renhardt sighed; the man had no respect for military protocol or basic politeness. His secretary would never have allowed him in but she was gone, murdered in cold blood when Jediah escaped. Their supposedly secure prisoner walking off the base like it was nothing.

Renhardt waved the man into the temporary office and bid him sit down at the desk. It had to be a temporary office; his main office was now a crime scene. The shock and horror of the sight had been inconceivable, even hardened Soldats had thrown up when they had seen the fate of Vice-Chancellor Donner. As Von-Grod sat down Renhardt said, "Its nothing, I just had to inform my daughter that I won't be attending my grandson's name-day."

Von-Grod sniffed and said, "Is that really a priority right now?"

"You don't have children do you?" asked Renhardt and when he got a shake of the head he continued, "Then you don't understand: family is important. "

Von-Grod didn't seem interested as he said, "So is it true that the prisoner escaped?"

Renhardt's eyes narrowed and he said, "That's classified, how do you know about it?"

Von-Grod looked out the window at the frantic activity and said, "I have eyes."

Renhardt thought about it, he remembered that the man did have the highest security clearance and then he said, "Yes it's true, the captive ripped the door of his cell out of its fixings and escaped. But first he killed several people, including the Vice-Chancellor. In a lifetime of service I've never seen such casual brutality, the things he did to Donner…"

Von-Grod missed the pain in the reply as he dragged on his iho-stick and said, "Have you considered the implications?"

"Of course I have," Renhardt snapped, "We had him under lock and key and he broke out. He killed our people and stole important state secrets!"

"No," commented Von-Grod, "I mean that he could have escaped at any time he wanted but he deliberately chose to wait for the Vice-Chancellor to arrive. He wasn't here by accident; he was here on a mission… one that he accomplished."

Renhardt was given pause by that; it was obvious when one thought about it. Ten years ago it would have been the first thing he thought of but now his instincts were dulled by age. He sighed and said, "If he was sent here on a mission that raises the question: who sent him?"

Von-Grod thought about it and ventured, "It couldn't have been the Concordance, they don't have the technology to train someone like him. This must be someone else. Perhaps there are more like him out there."

Renhardt sat up in shock and exclaimed, "You'd better hope not, just one of them killed a score of Soldat's out in the forests. I've never seen anything like it. If there are any more, then we are in a lot of trouble."

Von-Grod looked pensive as he asked, "Do you think there was anything to what he was saying, about an Imperium and Terra?"

Renhardt shook his head and said, "Once I would have thought that it's not possible, that it was just the Red's damned propaganda. But the things I've seen recently have shaken every conviction that I had."

Von-Gord mused, "There's so much we don't understand and so much our history is lost. Ever since the fall of the First Kingdom we have had to relearn everything. Three hundred years of study and we still can't match their technology."

He was interrupted by a knock at the door; Renhardt blinked and then called, "Come!"

The door swung open to reveal the stark silhouette of Director Neadler, standing there with his hands loosely held at his sides and his eyes hidden behind his tinted glasses. Renhardt was not happy to see him but waved him in and the Director promptly sat down, smoothing out his long coat. The Kommandant had always been uncomfortable around any agents of the P.I.A. for their powers were rumoured to extend well beyond mere mind-reading into the realms of the supernatural. Renhardt knew that everybody was supposed to accept the psychically gifted as being merely evolutionarily advantaged; Nordlund prided itself on being a rational and egalitarian society after all.

The P.I.A. dated right back to the forgotten days of the First Kingdom, when it had been known as the Astropath Guild, and had played no small part in Nordlund's rise to power. Yet old superstitions died hard and there were always rumours about strange rites and uncanny goings-on behind their thick, high walls. If half the rumours he had heard about the powers wielded by the Sturmtruppe were true, then he had good reason to be worried.

Neadler glanced about the office and said, "Well now, you do have a situation on your hands."

Renhardt bit back a retort and said, "I am aware of that, the prisoner has killed many and shown a shocking lack of respect for life. I had no idea he was such a savage."

Neadler crossed his hands and said, "Savagery implies unthinking carelessness, this was calculated and precise. Planned out to the last detail."

Renhardt spat, "He took Donner's brain!"

Von-Grod spat out his iho-stick in shock and turned green but Neadler sniffed and remarked, "There are certain arts of biomancy that require a brain, the implications of that are disturbing. We can't let the captive complete whatever task he came here for."

"He can't get far," remarked Renhardt, "He's one man all alone, trapped here with no way to escape."

Neadler lowered his glasses a fraction and stared pointedly as he questioned, "Is he?"

Renhardt was taken back and then cursed loudly, "Dammit!"

Von-Grod looked confused and asked, "What is it?"

Renhardt berated himself as a slow, old fool and spat "You said it yourself, that Jediah wasn't here by accident. Our supposed captive was never really a prisoner, he chose to be captured and no Soldat ever goes into a hostile situation alone without first planning his exfiltration. He must have a way to get out of the region, that's why he's heading up higher into the mountains rather than trying to get to the lowlands."

Neadler nodded and said, "The question is: how are you going to stop him?"

Renhardt swallowed a retort and instead gestured to a map pinned to a wall and explained, "I have search parties sweeping the woods, he's fought back but we still drive him on. I have positioned Panzers at choke points, here, here and here and I have Flitzers sweeping the skies. There are only so many ways out of those mountains; the quarry will have to try to get around our Soldats eventually. Then we will have him."

Neadler shook his head and said, "Not good enough, there are too may goat-trails leading out of the area. And I have doubts that your Soldats can stop him anyway. I think it's time to call in reinforcements."

Renhardt slapped the table and spat, "You do not give orders here, the P.I.A. is a civilian organisation. Kongress has mandated that you keep your nose out of military operations… good job too. You'd be running the whole nation otherwise."

Neadler sat for a moment staring at him and then said, "I think you had better answer that."

Renhardt frowned in confusion at the non-sequitur but then a second later the telephone rang, making him start. The Kommandant glared in annoyance, unimpressed by Neadler's cheap parlour trick, before snatching up the handset. He placed it next to his ear but then turned white as he said, "Yes what is it?! Oh…Oh, good morning Chancellor…. Yes, yes I know that you…. Yes, I do see, but… but… Yes, of course, you're correct … right away sir."

He hung up the line and glared at Neadler saying, "That was the Chancellor, he says that you're in charge now."

Neadler brushed off his coat and said, "Good, now that's settled follow me."

He led the pair of men out of the office and walked out into the daylight. He led them past bustling soldiers and trundling trucks, all busy loading weapons and driving out into the hills. Yet Neadler led them out to the bare vehicle park and stopped, peering into the sky. Renhardt stopped too and looked up, shading his eyes from the harsh sun. After a moment he discerned a smudge in the sky, a blur that swiftly became a blot and then resolved into the shape of a large Flitzer. It closed on the base rapidly and the thunderous chopping of its blades filled the air. In minutes it was hovering over the base and then it descended, guided down by a Soldat in a bright orange shirt waving two batons. It settled down on the concrete before cutting its engines and going quiet.

A door slid back in its sides and a scrum of men jumped out. They were big, swollen with muscles and abnormally broad and tall. The newcomers wore matt black fatigues, with curved carapace armour over their chests and large domed helmets that hid their eyes behind thick shadows. There was something reminiscent of the captive in their heft and bulk, but individually none of them could quite match the sheer power of the man who had killed so many with his bare hands. Each of them had a small rapid-firing blunderbluss attached to his left wrist and a long machete on his right hip. They also each had a small backpack, and under its folds could be glimpsed the coloured vials of the stimm-injectors that continually fed them steroids and other, more exotic substances. Renhardt froze as he recognised the black uniforms, without insignia of any kind: Sturmtruppes.

They came in three groups of five and stood before the Kommandant and Director, grouped together in a loose formation. Renhardt swallowed, knowing that despite their lack of spit and polish these were the most dangerous warriors in Nordlund. Their strength and weapons alone would have made them superior to any conventional Soldat but there was also an acrid tang surrounding them. A crackle in the air that hinted of the otherworldly power contained within them. This was why the Sturmtruppe answered to the P.I.A. alone, for they couldn't be considered Soldats in any way. They were psychics; all of them trained battle-psychics.

Von-Grod stepped forward and poked one in the breastplate saying, "This is the same ceramic material the prisoner's armour was made from. It must be First Kingdom science; does the P.I.A. have access to that sort of technology?"

Neadler replied simply, "Classified."

Renhardt swallowed nervously and said, "Is this really necessary, three whole teams? I've never heard of more than one being deployed at any time. Isn't this overkill?"

Neadler replied frankly, "No, I really don't think that it is."

Von-Grod commented, "Well psychics did seem to be the one thing the prisoner was concerned about."

Renhardt acquiesced and said, "Very well, I guess we will have to do this."

"Good, because this isn't up for debate," growled Neadler, "Nobody can hide from the Sturmtruppe. We will sniff out this Jediah and then finish him off once and for all."


	7. Chapter 7

**Captum Ante Chapter 7**

The hot afternoon sun was being broken up by the swaying leaves, creating a dappled world under the canopy. In that striped twilight Jediah waited, his finger on the trigger of his stolen stubber. He was laid down in the underbrush, half buried under leaves and twigs.

For some hours the Storm Herald had been aware that he was being tracked, an itching sensation between his shoulder blades that he could not shake. He had tried to evade, changing tracks and doubling back, but he could not lose his pursuers. He did not know how, but someone was locked onto his scent and would not relent. Unable to escape Jediah had laid a trap, settling down to wait for the trackers and it turned out they hadn't been far behind at all.

Coming through the dappled sunlight were five figures, hunched over and carrying weapons in tight grips. Jediah frowned for there was something off about these newcomers, a bulk and heft all too familiar. They were large and broad, bulked with abnormal muscles and they wore carapace breastplates over dun fatigues. In some ways they reminded Jediah of his Chapter's Scout-Novices, but there was an unhealthy pallor to their skin that no Storm Herald ever displayed.

Jediah carefully lined up his stubber and waited for the foes to close, then he let fly with a burst of fire. A salvo of fat rounds erupted from his hiding place, hitting the oncoming warriors and knocking them back. None of them fell however, their bodies withstanding the blasts with ease. Jediah snarled and discarded his useless stubber, rising up from the underbrush with his knife and spear in hand. He leapt at the knot of newcomers, lashing out with a cry of fury. His first blow ripped open fatigues and scored the flesh beneath but the enemy did not flinch, instead pressing back with a fierce counterattack. Jediah's anger rose, these foes had definitely been augmented in some fashion.

Jediah was forced to duck as a blade swung at his head, missing his scalp by a millimetre and shaving hairs from his scalp. He thrust his knife in response but was blocked by a strong arm. He twisted about as another machette swung at his back and a blow that should have severed his spine merely scored across his muscly flank. Jediah gritted his teeth as he fought on, hacking and slashing at anything that moved. His attackers were good, fast and strong and they closed in, trapping him in a ring of foes. Fists and knees came at him in a rain of blows and long blades scored across his flesh over and over. Their strength and speed was not quite human and he had to draw upon all his experience and training to survive amid the frenzy of blows. Yet Jediah was not passively accepting the blows for fought back with his knife and spear, giving as good as he got.

Flesh tore and sinews were stretched to the limit as two orders of augmented beings tested each other to the pinnacles of their strength and skill. The fighting was as fierce and fast as any Jediah had ever seen, but for all their enhancements his foes did not quite seem to know how to use their mighty strength. They did not grasp how to fight as Transhumans and that was an advantage that Jediah could use.

As he hacked and slashed a morsel floated up from his stolen memories, a concept of pride and ferocity linked to a word: Sturmtruppes. The moment of reflection almost cost him dear as one of them stepped back and opened his mouth. A fierce glow built in his mouth and then with a roar the foe spat a tongue of green-edged flames into the fight. Jediah instinctively dropped low and the heat scorched his shoulders but internally he was reeling in shock and his mind churned with horror as he grasped the truth. These Sturmtruppes were no normal men, they were Psykers. Freaks bestowed with unnatural powers, mutated in mind if not in body, filthy Witches.

Jediah struggled to grasp the implications of that fact. This world freely used unsanctioned Psykers… were they completely mad?

The Imperium rightly feared and abhorred Psykers, for they were living portals to the nightmare of the Warp. A bridge and a doorway for unnatural powers and the things that lived within those haunted depths. Just one rogue psyker, without the blessings or discipline of the Imperium, could become a gateway for hosts of immaterial travesties. By the Throne, how had this world not been consumed by hordes of Daemons centuries ago?

While Jediah had been thinking of this the pyromancer had opened his mouth again and infernal light burned in his mouth. Jediah's shock evaporated as wrath and righteous fury blazed within his hearts, filling him with sacred abhorrence at the perversions on display. With Transhuman speed he surged forwards and slammed his skull into the Psyker's face, sending his foe reeling. Then he slammed a foot into the midriff, sending the Witch sprawling. Instantly Jediah twisted and threw his spear at the next nearest mutant, hurling it with all his might. The shaft flew straight and true but suddenly it stopped in mid-air, hanging impossibly before the mutant.

Jediah snarled as he realised that this one's powers were different: a Telekine. Quick as a flash Jediah was moving, racing at his enemy with his knife in hand. The Telekine saw him coming and threw up a force wall, trying to stop him with eldritch power. Yet Jediah knew something that he didn't: a Telekine's power was only as strong as his will and no being in the galaxy had a will stronger than that of a Space Marine.

Jediah felt the wall of force pushing him back but he refused to yield, forcing himself forward step by step. It was like running up a waterfall but Jediah forced himself to take one more step, then another and another. Each movement was a titanic effort but Jediah's body was subordinate to his will and his will was steel.

He urged himself forward one more time and then his knife flashed and the Witch fell, with blood gushing in a torrent from his throat. The force fell away but before he could recover another of the freaks was already coming at Jediah was a long blade in hand. The Space Marine met it with his own short knife, then he thrust back but the Witch twisted away to avoid the blow, and the next and the next. Jediah realised that this mutant was reacting before he even moved; the Witch must be a clairvoyant.

Fighting a Seer could be tricky but the Space Marines were trained by their Librarians to counter all manner of Warp trickery. He backed off a step and moved left. The Seer frowned as he peered into the future, looking for the Space Marine's next attack but that was not Jediah's intention at all. He waited for a moment until he heard a sharp intake of breath, then he moved. The Seer raised his blade, expecting a strike but instead Jediah grabbed him by the breastplate. So focused was the Witch upon an impending attack that he failed to see the unexpected move and was caught off guard.

Jediah twisted and pulled hard, throwing the Seer right into the path of another flame-breath from the Pyromancer. The Sturmtruppe was set alight by the Warp-fire and he shrieked in unearthly agony as he collided with the other Witch. They went down in a tangle of limbs, beating at flames on their bodies that refused to go out.

Ha, Jediah thought, didn't see that coming did you.

Suddenly a sharp pain rang through Jediah's head, a piercing drill that bored into his skull. He collapsed to his knees as agony coursed through him and he dropped his knife as his hands went into spasm. His vision smeared with tears but he could still see that one of the freaks was standing before him, hands outstretched. Jediah snarled to himself as he recognised the power at work: this Witch was a Telepath.

As the agony poured through him Jediah chanted the ancient litanies that had been taught to him as a Novice, the mantras that erected the barriers of his will. Mystical techniques forged in the fires of Heresy and war wove a barricade around his subconscious, protecting his soul from the Witch. Yet for all his fortitude he was no Librarian and the Psyker would not relent, boring into his mind with ferocious power, tearing and gouging at the Space Marine's defence. Jediah knew that he could not keep the Witch out forever, so he decided to show this freak that he should be more careful about whose mind he entered. With a conscious choice Jediah dropped the barriers around his memories, showing the Witch every fight he had been in and every foe that he had encountered. The Witch cried out in glee as he felt the mental barriers drop but it swiftly turned to utter horror as Jediah's life played out before him.

In his mind's eye Jediah revisited every opponent he had ever faced, filthy heretics and debased mutants, savage Orks and a cavalcade of hideous Xenos. He saw giant starships duelling across the void and endless hordes of ravenous Bio-ships, streaming out of the darkness between the stars. Jediah saw cities on fire and hateful Traitor Marines striding from the ashes in all their befouled glory and then he saw Daemons. Daemons, pouring out of the Warp; twisting reality and making puppets of men. Daemons consuming Psyker's minds to open gateways into the ultimate horror that was the Warp. Legions of ethereal horrors pouring through those living portals, consuming billions of innocents at once and setting whole worlds aflame.

The Telepath shrieked in terror and incomprehension as his mind filled with revelations that his limited world-view could not process. His psyche shattered as his sanity broke into a million splinters, his feeble will unable to cope with the horrors that Jediah faced on a daily basis. Then the Witch clutched at his chest as he went into cardiac arrest, falling down as he died of a heart attack.

Jediah had beaten the witches but sadly not all of them.

From nowhere the last one leapt at Jediah head first, barrelling him to the ground. Jediah was stunned and the breath was forced out of him by the sudden weight crashing into him, which far exceeded even that of an Astartes. They rolled on the ground together, punching and kneeing each other furiously. Finally they came to a halt, Jediah flat on his back and the Witch bestride him, with his hands locked around the Storm Herald's throat. Jediah felt his windpipe closing and his multi-lung tried to expand to compensate but it was already too late. His air was cut off and even he couldn't live without breathing. In desperation he drew back a fist and punched the Witch in the face but it bounced off and he felt like he had punched an Adamantium wall.

Before his eyes the witch was changing, his skin growing hard and shiny, like it was made out of metal. Jediah's anger grew as he realised that the last freak was Biomancer, able to shift his own flesh into whatever he needed. Jediah thrashed and kicked but could not budge the ever increasing weight of the Biomancer.

For his part the Witch bore down with a grin, choking off Jediah's breath and watching him suffocate. They were locked together, two warriors gazing into each other's eyes as one of them died. As his vision faded Jediah got both his hands under the Biomancer's chin and pushed hard, forcing the head up. Yet Jediah's strength was fading and the light was going dim in his eyes.

As the world went black Jediah drew back his fist and lashed out over and over, futilely bloodying his knuckles but determined to die fighting.


	8. Chapter 8

**Captum Ante Chapter 8**

Rough hands closed around Jediah's throat, cutting off his air and throttling him to death. The Space Marine thrashed and fought back for all he was worth but he could not break free. He tried to lever a knee up to shake the Sturmtruppe off but he had no leverage.

The Witch leaned down with a grin upon his face, metal lips parting to form words but Jediah could not hear them. His vision had narrowed to a tiny pinprick and his blood thundered in his ears, muffling all sounds. His lungs screamed for air and his implants fought to clear the build-up of carbon dioxide from his body but it was a losing battle. Jediah had faced death countless times and been certain, more than once, that his doom had come but never had he yielded to it. He struggled on to the last, thrashing and hitting out with knees and elbows but to no avail. With the last gasp of his strength he shoved his hands under the Biomancer's chin, forcing the head up and away.

The next second would be indelibly imprinted on Jediah's mind for the rest of his life. In a single second three things happened simultaneously, the first thing was a searing flash of light as something passed right before his left eye. The second thing was a sharp crack of noise and the third thing was the Biomancer's face imploding, folding in on itself as something struck him right between the eyes and penetrated his metal skull.

The force holding Jediah down instantly disappeared and he heaved the body off, rolling it to one side with a thud. He rolled onto his front, gasping with horse rasps and his chest heaved as he drank down the thin mountain air. Long seconds passed as he fought for breath, hacking and coughing in an uncontrollable fit. Jediah could feel his implants burning hot as his Emperor-gifted physiology laboured to restore his equilibrium and a new strength flooded into him. After a moment Jediah rubbed his throat and collected his knife then got to his feet, looking about in an attempt to see where his salvation had come from.

From behind a tree a shadow detached itself, emerging into the dappled sunlight. It was a large being, equal to Jediah in every way but covered in dull fatigues and with a ceramite carapace over the chest. He bore an elongated Stalker-pattern bolter in his hands and over his eyes were a pair of goggles with a targeting array built in. His hair was short but he sported thick sideburns, which ran down his cheeks to his jaw. This stranger approached with a cautious tread, then he grinned as he pushed up his goggles. In a rich voice he proclaimed, "Hail Brother!"

Jediah lowered his knife and then bowed his head in respect as he replied, "Hail Scout-Sergeant Nimodes. Your timing was impeccable as always."

Nimodes glanced at the corpse on the ground and remarked, "You looked like you needed some assistance. Four out of five, not bad but there's room for improvement."

Coming from anyone else Jediah would have taken offence at that but Nimodes was a proven warrior, a Veteran whose strength and wisdom commanded respect across the whole Storm Heralds Chapter. Jediah hadn't been directly under his command as a novice but had seen enough of him to value his steely determination. It was only a shame that he treated everybody like they were a green aspirant. Nimodes looked Jediah up and down, seeing that he was wearing nothing but a loincloth and said, "Where's your gear?"

Jediah shrugged and replied, "Things got complicated."

Nimodes raised an eyebrow and asked, "Are you fit to fight?"

Jediah declared, "You know the old saying, that which does not kill me…"

Then he paused and tensed up, before suddenly stepping forward and hurling his knife straight over Nimodes' shoulder. The blade flew through the air, spinning gently to land right in the throat of the Pyromancer, who had been rising up again with an infernal light burning in his mouth. The Witch froze in shock then toppled over, his mouth wide as his fires died. Jediah looked at the body then finished his comment, "Should Run."

Nimodes kicked the cooling corpse with the toe of his boot and spat, "What the Feth were these things?"

Jediah growled in disgust, "Witches."

"Unsanctioned Psykers!" barked Nimodes as he recoiled in horror, "Throne's sake, what are the people of this planet thinking. Letting unsanctioned Psykers roam free, are they completely bereft of all sense or just tragically ignorant?"

"I don't know and I don't care," growled Jediah, "They're dead, that's all that matters."

Nimodes carefully wiped the toe of his boot on a rock, as if Warp stain was something he could scrape off. He checked his boot then stated, "Tell me you got the Intel."

"Mission accomplished," replied Jediah shrugging his satchel which was still nestled between his shoulder blades, "I reached the target and I acquired the information."

Nimodes glanced up at him and said, "How was it?"

"A bit chewy," replied Jediah in a deadpan voice.

Nimodes shook his head and said, "Nobody sane would volunteer for a mission as crazy as this, yet at the first mention of brains your eyes light up."

Jediah sighed and said, "Where's the rest of your squad?"

Nimodes slapped a hand on his breastplate and called, "Come on out lads!"

From the shadows four more silhouettes emerged, carrying a variety of weapons. They had thick camo-cloaks over their shoulders and shaven scalps, exposing implanted neural ports in the skin, which was still pink and raw. They were all shorter than either of the Initiates and their callowness showed in their hesitant movements and deferential stance. As the scout-novices closed in Jediah frowned as remarked, "You lot could have intervened earlier."

"It was a good teaching moment, a chance to show the novices how an Astartes fights hand to hand against a numerically superior foe," replied Nimodes, "You were doing rather well… until the end."

Jediah raised an eyebrow and said, "You couldn't do any better."

Nimodes smirked and avoided replying by saying, "Come on, let's get out of here before more of them show up."

"Lead the way," remarked Jediah, "I long to get back in my armour."

Nimodes turned to address the Scout-novices saying, "Squad! Form up and move out double time. Watch the flanks and use your damned ears, the woods are speaking to you, learn how to listen. And novice Therro, try not to step on every single, bloody twig this time."

As the scouts headed out Jediah followed, walking close to Nimodes. He had been shaken by his brush with death, but he put it behind him. A Space Marine could not dwell on what might have been, for him there was only the mission and the next fight. Jediah glanced at Nimodes and said, "Why are you here?"

Nimodes replied frankly, "We saw all the commotion in the foothills and deduced that the mission had gone sideways. I determined it was best that we come to you, rather than waiting for you come to us."

That sounded good, but something was off and Jediah frowned as he said, "This forest is vast and I lost my Vox-beacon, by the Maelstrom how did you find me in all this?"

"Don't thank me, thank young Arvael," said Nimodes gesturing to a novice walking with a long sniper rifle in his grasp.

Jediah started and commented, "Him?"

Nimodes nodded and said, "Yes him, he had a vision that led us to you."

Jediah was startled and gripped his knife tighter hissing, "You mean he's a…"

"A visionary," stated Nimodes firmly, "He has the flaw."

"Oh," said Jediah relaxing slightly but not much. It was not a fact that the Storm Heralds announced widely but their gene-seed hid a small defect, namely a defective Catalepsean Node. When overtaxed a few select Brothers could occasionally experience visions or hallucinations and these visions often came true with a disturbing frequency. Yet this was not true prophecy like a Psyker could perform but rather produced intuitive insights, profound revelations and incredible leaps of deduction. It was a subtle difference but enough to keep the Inquisition at bay as no hint of Warp taint had ever been associated with it.

Jediah himself had once had a squadmate who had been similarly afflicted, Brother Daite. A brave and strong warrior, but sadly his revelations had come too late to save him from a Traitor's blade. Jediah had never been comfortable around him but the Masters had declared him sound and there was nothing else to be done. As Jediah reflected upon this Nimodes had carried on speaking, seeming to think that he had to explain everything. Nimodes was nodding at a bulky scout bearing a shotgun and said, "That is novice Therro, a strong lad but sadly he lacks two brain-cells to rub together."

Jediah glanced over, taking in the lad's muscles, thick neck and strong jawline. He liked what he saw and commented, "Smarts aren't everything, the Chapter needs brave line warriors."

Nimodes grimaced and said, "There's brave and then there's reckless. Still, if I can teach him to think before charging in he will make a fine Initiate."

Jediah glanced at the next lad, who bore a bolt pistol and a knife and said, "What about that one?"

"That," remarked Nimodes, "That shtum lump is novice Fiett, he's a bit too deep for his own good. Likes to brood on things but in a fight he's a wild one. Best fighter I've seen since Brother Novak but thank the Emperor he doesn't give me half as much lip."

Jediah looked at the last scout, who carried a Bolter like it was a brick and asked, "And him?"

"Ah," said Nimodes, "That's novice Varma… he's a solid lad."

Jediah looked again and took an instant dislike to Varma; there was hesitancy in his gait, a worried look and doubt written all over his face. An Astartes had to be firm and sure of purpose at all times, confident in his ability to manage anything but this lad looked like he was going to drop his bolter at the first loud noise. Jediah was surprised that the boy had made it this far in the training but he'd wager his bolt pistol that the novice would never complete his ascension to full initiate.

Jediah was reminded of something and turned to Nimodes saying, "Did you keep my effects?"

"Yes," replied Nimodes, "I wouldn't let them out of my sight."

With that he reached down and uncoupled his belt, passing it over with various weapons hanging from it. Jediah took it gratefully and strapped it around his waist, then he checked everything was in place. Bolt pistol, grenades and his prized Fractal-edged short sword, an heirloom of the Chapter granted unto to him due to his rank as an honoured Command-squad veteran.

"That's better," said Jediah in satisfaction as he strapped the belt on, "Now I feel properly dressed."

Nimodes raised an eyebrow, taking in Jediah's mostly naked form and remarked, "Do you really?"

Jediah checked his bolt pistol had a full clip and said, "Yes… why did I forget something?"

"No," replied Nimodes with a bemused shake of the head, "Come on let get out of here."

Jediah looked up at the mountains ahead and doubled his pace saying, "Good idea, the last thing I want is to run into any more Witches."


	9. Chapter 9

**Captum Ante Chapter 9**

The sun was sinking low over the Nordlund base, casting long shadows across its grounds. Men still laboured on, shifting gear and trundling out the gates in convoys but their movements were slower and less sure. The last day had seen total upheaval and now rumours were flying thick and fast about what had happened. Reports of escaped prisoners, ambushes in the woods and grisly murders passed from lip to lip, growing wilder with each retelling.

Watching the Soldat's at work Kommandant Renhardt and Mechaniker Von-Grod stood in the shadow of the large hanger where they had initially kept the artefacts of the prisoner. Those strange items had been shipped out to distant Konnigsberg, but the P.I.A. presence didn't seem diminished. In fact it seemed to be increasing.

Von-Grod watched a party of Soldats march past and said, "They seem on edge."

Renhardt was surprised that he had caught onto that much and commented, "They know something is up, there's too much going on and rumours are everywhere. The presence of the P.I.A. isn't helping, there just too many legends of their dark practices to let them be comfortable."

"Legends," scoffed Von-Grod, "Myths and fables, men of Nordlund should be above such things. We are a society built on reason and science; superstitions should be left in the past where they belong."

"Well," commented Renhardt, "That's no myth."

As they watched a black cargo-8 rolled into the base, its lack of insignia declaring its allegiance. As they watched P.I.A. agents hurried over to it and began inspecting the contents. They were joined by Director Neadler who looked distressed. After a minute they began to unload the contents, they tried to hide what it contained but Renhardt knew a body-bag when he saw one. No not just one, five of them.

Renhardt gasped, "Oh no."

"What?" asked Von-Grod.

Renhardt said in disbelief, "The Sturmtruppes, that's them."

Von-Grod looked shocked and said, "I thought that was impossible, they can't lose."

"Apparently they can" replied Renhardt, "Come with me, we need to see what's going on."

Quickly they strode over to the black-clad agents, who were opening the body-bags to inspect the corpses. One of them tried to bar their path but was halted when Neadler called, "No, let them pass. They might as well see this."

The pair closed in and saw the piled bodies before them and Renhardt breathed, "How did this happen?"

Neadler growled, "We underestimated the threat, this menace is more powerful than we ever imagined."

Von-Grod was peering at a Sturmtruppe whose skin was grey and metallic. The head had been caved in, penetrated and blown apart from the inside out. The Mechaniker frowned and said, "I've never seen an exit wound like this, but the size of the entry wound perfectly matches the weapon we took off the prisoner."

Renhardt was concerned and said, "But we confiscated that, how did he get another?"

Neadler replied, "Either he had a cache hidden out in the woods somewhere. Or…"

"Oh no," gasped Renhardt, "There must be more of them out there."

"What are we going to do?" asked Von-Grod in concern.

Neadler looked like he had made a decision and said, "We fight fire with fire. It's time to unleash our full power."

Renhardt didn't understand and said, "What do you mean?"

Neadler looked at him for a moment then stated, "The P.I.A. has recovered certain techniques from the ruins of the First Kingdom. Certain practices that can increase a psychic's potency and grant new and unique abilities."

Von-Grod looked upset and said, "You speak like some conjurer or magician, this has no basis in science."

Neadler stated, "It's a simple procedure, one that we have employed before."

Renhardt didn't like the sound of that and asked, "Is it safe?"

Neadler had a strange look upon his face as he said, "Desperate times call for desperate measures."

With that he turned on his heel and marched towards the hanger, leading the pair towards its towering bulk. Renhardt couldn't explain why but the shadows seemed to be clinging to its sides, in a way they weren't to other buildings. It loomed over them and he felt like it was akin to a mighty predator, just waiting for prey to enter its trap. The pair of them followed Neadler into the hanger and they were engulfed by a darkness that fell on them like a veil. They walked forwards blindly but were brought up short when a light appeared, illuminating was waiting for them.

The plain and functional hanger had been transformed, turned into a macabre shrine. The walls had been lined with silver designs that described strange geometries and unnatural angles. Similar icons had been emblazoned on the floor and ceiling, surrounding them on all sides and the images they created made Renhardt's eyes hurt. Around the edge of the space tall candles burned like captured stars in the darkness, emitting odd multi-coloured smokes that writhed and twisted though there was no wind to disturb them.

In the centre of the room was a large pentagram, filled with more unusual glyphs. At the very centre of the space was a rough stone altar, with a goat tied down to it. Standing at the Cardinal points were a selection of P.I.A agents, dressed in black robes that hid their faces in shadow. Each of them held a small candle before them and they rocked back and forth as a lilting chant came from their lips. "Komm zu uns Wechsler der Wege," they chanted as one, "Komm zu uns Architekt des Schicksals."

Renhardt recognised the language, it was the Old Tongue but the words made no sense. He had no context for what they were saying and the tones merged together in his ears into one repetitive noise. Something about all this struck Renhardt as being profoundly wrong, he felt like he was seeing something pure being defiled. A sick sensation arose in his stomach and a small voice at the back of his mind screamed at him to run.

Besides him Von-Grod's jaw dropped and he spat, "What is this supposed to be?!"

Neadler didn't seem concerned as he replied, "This is the procedure."

Von-Grod sounded irate as he barked, "Its rank mysticism and superstition!"

Neadler shook his head and said, "Any sufficiently advanced technology assumes the appearance of magic."

"Technology?" growled Von-Grod, "You call this technology, it's nothing but a lot of smoke and mirrors. Let me guess, those candles are impregnated with hallucinogens. You'll get us off our heads, show us some bright lights and call it magic."

Neadler replied coolly, "No, it is a science, just because you don't understand it doesn't make it magic."

Von-Grod growled, "Sacrificing a goat for power: this is an insult to science!"

Neadler drew in a breath and said, "What is science but the understanding and harnessing of physical laws? The First Kingdom understood that psionic ability follows its own unique set of laws and sought to harness them. This may look like some Southern religious-rite but I assure you it has been rigorously tested and found to be effective."

Renhardt swallowed in trepidation and couldn't help but say, "Director this is most unorthodox, I'm not sure I can allow it."

Neadler however smiled and remarked, "You know I said much the same thing when I first saw it, you can't imagine how much worse it was back then. Why back in the days of the First Kingdom they practiced genuine human sacrifice, thankfully we put a stop to all that. This is just the bare bones, the absolute essentials and yet I still require a witness to make it work."

"You can count me out," spat Von-Grod, "I will play no part in this."

"Very well," accepted Neadler then he looked at Renhardt.

The Kommandant found himself thrust into an awkward position, on one hand the ritual went against all the teachings he had grown up with. Nordlund claimed to stand for reason and science but this was rank mysticism. On the other hand, he was a senior officer and needed to set an example, he had been given instructions by the Chancellor himself to comply with the P.I.A. and would not refuse an order. He told himself that he was a veteran Soldat; he needed to man up and get on with it. Renhardt nodded reluctantly but Von-Grod threw up his hands in disgust then turned and stormed out. Renhardt watched him go, wishing that he could follow but instead said, "What do you need me to do?"

Neadler picked up a burning candle from a stand and thrust it into his hands saying, "Hold this and stand in that corner."

"That's it?" asked Renhardt in surprise.

Neadler nodded and said, "That's all."

Renhardt was relieved and did as he was bid, standing in the corner and watching the procedures. Meanwhile Neadler strode into the centre of the pentagram and picked up a dull stone knife. The agents around him began chanting louder and more frantically as the lights seemed to dim, making the shadows move. Cheap trick, thought Renhardt, maybe this was just a lot of smoke and mirrors after all. Neadler drew in a breath and then cried loudly, "Großer Meister des Schicksals, wir bitten dich um Hilfe. Deine Feinde apprazieren und wir sind schwach!"

Renhardt felt a wave of nausea sweep over him at that pronouncement, a sick churning in his gut and prickly heat across his forehead. The words were of the old tongue but somehow they had a resonance that was unearthly, like they were echoing in some impossible place separate from reality. The words rang in the dark corners and the shadows there writhed in response, curling and extending like some living thing. Von-Grod must have been right, thought Renhardt desperately; there must be something in these candles. Yes, that had to be it; he was being drugged and was seeing things. It was impossible for it to be otherwise.

Neadler however wasn't done, he drew in another breath and cried, "Sende uns deinen Diener Harbinger, um uns zu führen!"

Now the symbols on the walls seemed to be moving, twisting and reshaping themselves as Renhardt watched. Shapes formed and there seemed to be laughing faces among them, peering at him and whispering sweet promises. Renhardt looked down and refused to stare at them. He told himself that his eyes were playing tricks and he couldn't trust them. Yet deep within his heart a small part of him worried that if he looked too long he might understand what the shadows were saying to him and then he would never be able to stop hearing them. Neadler had reached the culmination of his ritual and he shrieked, "Schenke uns Kraft, damit wir für dich kämpfen können. Schenke uns deine Sicht, damit wir deine Feinde finden können!"

Renhardt's head was swirling and the room seemed to spin around him in a kaleidoscope of colours. His head hurt and his eyes throbbed in time to the chanting as a strange taste rose up on his tongue. Blood, he realised in shock, he tasted blood. He put a hand to his face, thinking that he had a nosebleed but he hadn't, the blood was in fact gushing up from his throat. He fell forward and vomited up a fat glob of blood, which to his utter horror was black.

He looked up again and saw the designs on the wall pulsing and writhing like living things, all laughing at him. It wasn't his eyes, Renhardt realised with revulsion, they actually were moving. Panic swelled in the Kommandant's heart and he felt an overwhelming urge to flee. He had to get out, he had to get away from this madness but he could not move, his every muscle was frozen solid in terror. As he watched Neadler took the knife in both hands, holding it aloft with an insane grin upon his lips. He gazed up at the intricate designs on the ceiling, revelling in the culmination of the ritual. Then with a flash his arms came down, sacrificing the goat in a spray of blood.

As Renhardt knelt as a mute witness, all the agents rose up as one and screamed, "Tzeentch! Alle grüßen Tzeentch!"


	10. Chapter 10

**Captum Ante Chapter 10**

The dusk light spread over the mountainside, rich in colour yet cooling as the day's heat wore off. It was a red sunset, the shade of old rust and it gave everything a rouge tint as the sun sank down. From this high up the foothills could be seen with perfect clarity, stretching down to the endless farmlands which were already sinking into the dark. Moving up that mountainside was an armed party, advancing rapidly with weapons held ready. They had no care or appreciation for the picture perfect lighting, save for how it would affect their targeting and cover. They were the Storm Heralds scouts and they were on the move.

Amid their number a young Scout-novice was advancing, his camo-cloak shrugged over his shoulder and a long sniper rifle held ready in his grip. His face was fresh and even under his first growth spurts into a full Transhuman it still looked youthful. He had a shorn scalp, a sharp nose and his teeth were still his own, rather than the vat-grown replacements that older Brothers required due to the ravages of age and battle. His name was Arvael and he was well on the way to his full ascension.

Arvael had a pair of night-vision goggles on his forehead, but he didn't really need them. His augmentation was far enough along to allow him to see in the fading light as well as he did at noon. His li mbs were also bursting with new-found power, a strength and vitality beyond that of a normal adolescent, as his implants worked to convert him into a true post-human warrior. He was making his way uphill, it was tempting to run but he tempered his exuberance with discipline and kept a steady pace. Nevertheless he still moved swiftly from cover to cover whilst sweeping for threats and keeping his sniper rifle close. For all his speed he was moving silently too, not touching a twig or root, placing his feet perfectly even though his eyes were fixed upon the horizon. Arvael had received begrudging approval from the training instructors for his stealth, he seemed to have a knack for perfect spatial awareness and he never put a foot wrong.

The same could not be said for Scout-Novice Therro, who was clomping along in his heavy boots, catching debris and leaves with every step. He was swinging his shotgun to and fro, targeting every shadow with a cocky grin on his face. Arvael found him to be headstrong and pig-headed; frankly he had been a bully among the aspirants until all the weaklings had been eliminated, leaving only those with fire in their spirit. Yet Therro held high favour among the instructors, who praised his belligerent and aggressive nature. There seemed to be no doubt that Therro would make the grade and achieve ascension to full initiate.

Arvael scowled and whispered, "Can you at least try to be quiet, we are supposed to be infiltrators not Terminators. You are giving away our position."

Therro grinned and said, "Let them come, I will give them a taste of my shotgun."

Arvael shook his head and said, "You're not an initiate yet and if you keep breaking protocol you never will be."

Therro's grin faded and a fierce anger burned in his eyes as he growled, "Don't think that you can tell me what to do."

"Will you two shut up," whispered novice Fiett, "They can hear you all the way back to Terra."

The pair fell silent at that, for Fiett was a fierce and determined scout. He was not overly introspective but he was extremely competent with a blade. A fact he had repeatedly demonstrated in the training circles. He had bested both of them in mock duels and played no small part in putting Therro back in his place. With his admonition, they both fell silent and walked on scanning their surroundings for dangers. It didn't last long, for after a minute Scout Varma spoke up to say, "It will be dark soon, should we carry on along this path or find a gentler slope? I mean we can see but there more places for enemies to hide, maybe we should get in the clear ground."

Arvael shook his head and said, "Don't second-guess yourself, we keep on course and make our way back to our landing site by the most direct means."

Varma looked doubtful as he replied, "Shouldn't we consult Sergeant Nimodes?"

"No," stated Arvael, "He expects us to show initiative and lead the way."

Varma fell into a sullen silence and Arvael frowned in consternation. Novice Varma had been an aspirant as long as he had, but had yet to bloom into his full potential. It was not that his fighting skills were lacking or his aim, for these were respectable, it was not even a discipline problem or an issue with his Gene-seed. No what was holding Varma back was his lack of self-confidence, his need to second-guess his own decisions and seek approval from his superiors.

Arvael often thought that Varma was too concerned with appearing to be right before Sergeant Nimodes and not enough with getting on with things. It caused him to hesitate and worry when he should be acting. He hadn't yet grasped that making the right choice in combat is oft secondary to choosing at all, having the strength to act and then to follow through that choice with determination, rather than worry about getting everything right. Arvael had heard rumours that unless Varma bucked up his ideas soon then he would be dismissed from Tenth Company. Doomed forevermore to be a humble Serf of the Chapter, it was a fate none of them would wish for.

He was brought back to reality by Therro, who was wondering, "Do you think there will be any glory for us after this mission?"

It was a valid concern; Scout-novices were the lowest of the Chapter, the least likely to see a taste of glory. Glory was everything to the Scouts, with glory came respect, with respect came ascension and with ascension the Brotherhood that they all aspired to join. They had not even warranted the right to be called 'Brother' yet, that honoured title had to be earned and it was a goal they all aspired to. The result of this was to instil a desperate thirst among the young novices, a craving to prove themselves. A high profile, high-risk mission like this had seemed a perfect opportunity but so far all they had done was wait and follow Sergeant Nimodes around.

Fiett glanced behind them and said, "Brother Jediah, now there's one who will be showered with glory when we return."

Arvael glanced back and saw Brother Jediah walking along, half-naked but somehow more how ferocious and savage in appearance for it. His corded muscles bore numerous scars and he was covered in dirt, mud and blood, a testament to the fighting he had already seen.

He was walking with Sergeant Nimodes, apparently talking in a casual fashion, but Arvael didn't doubt that both of them were totally aware of their surroundings. He pronounced, "I heard that Brother Jediah serves in the Command squad of Third Company, under Captain Toran."

Therro declared, "I heard he was the last soul off the Light of Terra at the battle over Angle's Redoubt."

Arvael wasn't about to be outdone and said, "Well I heard that Third Company marched into the heart of Forgeworld Crux Lapis and the Tech-Priests were so afraid of him that they gave the Chapter a whole ship rather than have Brother Jediah set upon them."

"That's nothing" declared Fiett, "I heard he fought in the defence of the Fortress-Monastery against the Dusk-Prince Vorshaan. He won so much glory that he was inducted into the Primarch's Own."

"Primarch's Own?" asked Varma with a frown, "What's that?"

Fiett stated, "Some sort of super-secret brotherhood, very quiet and very elite. I overheard a couple of the older novices talking before they ascended and Sergeant Nimodes gave them a dressing down so fierce that their ears bled. Apparently nobody's supposed to talk about it, not even among ourselves, it's that elite."

"Amazing," remarked Varma, "Can you imagine being so honoured?"

"No need for imagination," declared Therro, "How about it Arvael, any visions of us being made heroes of the Chapter?"

"It doesn't work like that," spat Arvael in irritation, "I see only what is, not what will be."

The Scouts lapsed into silence at that, all disturbed by Therro's insensitive comment. Arvael was one of a chosen few who suffered from visions and profound revelations. He was told that it was caused by a flaw in the gene-seed but it was not considered to be a liability. Only one or two Bothers in a generation suffered from this flaw and their visions were held by the more religious brethren to be messages from the Emperor.

Arvael didn't know how he suddenly knew these things, they just came to him. Images of things happening far away sometimes in stunning detail, at other times only in vague metaphors. The Apothecaries claimed it was his enhanced brain being stimulated to a state of hyperactivity by a defective Catalepsean Node, turning him into a human logic-engine. Arvael didn't know how it could be so, but it was a complication he could well do without. At least it never happened in combat, though he had no idea why. Nevertheless it set him apart from his brothers and made him an object of fear and reverence in equal measures. Arvael didn't want that, he just wanted to be another Initiate like any of the ascended Brothers.

As if summoned by his thoughts Arvael felt a strange sinking sensation and his guts churned in an all-too-familiar way. His vision went grey and the world span around him, e xpanding and yet moving away from him at the same. "Oh no not again, not now," he whispered as the world dissolved into grey mist.

Arvael felt a sudden lightness swell up within him and he soared free, ascending high over the world. In his mind's eye he saw a continent laid out before him, cities and towns and villages presenting themselves like bright stars in the firmament. Streaming lines of people connected those conurbations, people going about their lives, living normal lives. Arvael saw the land rising towards the mountains in gentle slopes and nestled in those hills a base.

It should have been a beacon of order and regimented structure, yet in his mind's eye he saw a frothing tide of insanity rising. Arvael perceived it as a bubbling geyser of black oil, jetting upwards and covering the land with filth. It spread outwards from that point, like an oil slick on water, staining everything with its filth and making it seem befouled by its mere touch. Then to his horror, he perceived faces in the blackness. Leering faces with beaks and feathers that laughed in mocking derision.

Arvael instantly hated that blackness, the very sight of it sending waves of revulsion through him. Its existence was an affront to the natural order and it had no place here. His anger rose and he wanted to destroy it, he wanted to burn it out and scorch the land clean of its filth. But then anger turned to dread as one of the faces saw him, impossibly he saw it turn towards him and its lips formed the word, "Arva…"

Arvael snapped back to reality with a shock. He sat upright in a frantic burst and shouted, "We're in danger!"

A voice came to him, cutting through his dazed state as it barked, "What did you see?! Tell me now!"

Arvael realised that it was Sergeant Nimodes, standing over him as he experienced his vision. He tried to explain what he had seen, "Darkness, pollution, filth. It sees us, it's coming for us."

Varma sounded worried and confused as he asked, "What does that mean?"

A fierce growl announced the presence of Brother Jediah proclaiming, "It means the Witches are up to something."

"He's right," declared Nimodes, "The witches aren't going to let us go so easily. We have to double our pace."

"But…" protested Varma.

"No time!" shouted Nimodes, "Get your arses in gear novices, we have to leave now! Come on move your laggard feet, we are getting the hell out of here before hell comes looking for us!"


	11. Chapter 11

**Captum Ante Chapter 11**

Night had fallen over the mountain, a crisp and cold night, filled with the chirp of insects. It was a deep velvet shawl, spackled with stars but no moon, leaving the world wrapped in an impenetrable darkness. Impenetrable to most, but not to the Space Marines.

On a slight ridge in the ground Scout-Novice Arvael was laid down, peering intently through the scope of his sniper rifle. He and his squad had been running flat out for several hours now, fleeing from the dark vision that still plagued his thoughts. He still could not say with any certainty what it was that his revelation had revealed, but he was certain that they did not want to face it without serious reinforcements.

Currently he was staring down the ridge, which sloped away from him in a long sweep before rising up again, creating a little valley of ploughed fields bereft of trees. Nestled in that valley were a collection of wooden buildings, simple little things with sloped roofs and mud-stained walls. There was the bleating of animals and flickering lights in the windows and the faint scent of logs blazing in a hearth. It was a simple little farm where people lived out their lives with little reference to the wider world, a place that would go unnoticed by the mighty lords and generals who ruled vast nations. A picturesque agrarian paradise, existing in blissful ignorance of the Transhuman warriors encroaching upon its borders.

Arvael was scouring its layout and assessing its concealed positions, possible firing angles and the potential number of hiding places for enemies. His assessment was that it presented little threat, being poorly designed for defence and too small to hide significant numbers of enemies. Satisfied he lifted his sniper rifle and shuffled back down the slope, to where the rest of the squad were waiting.

As he approached them Sergeant Nimodes looked at him and said, "Well, what is your assessment?"

Arvael was certain Nimodes had already completed a more thorough assessment than he could have done, yet the Sergeant never missed an opportunity to teach.

Arvael said, "We've definitely wandered off course, that farmstead is not one we passed on the way down. It's a small threat though, a half dozen buildings, no more than a few families. No signs of heavy equipment or concealed troops having arrived recently."

"It is an obstacle though," commented Nimodes, "One that will slow us down."

Varma asked, "Could we backtrack to our last known position and find our original trail?"

"That would take too much time," stated Nimodes then he looked at Arvael and asked, "Can we afford such a delay?"

Arvael shook his head, certain that they could not delay at all and Nimodes nodded in acceptance. It may have seemed odd to an outsider that the Storm Heralds were so ready to accept a vision's guidance but millennia of experience had taught them that such revelations came true with distressing frequency. Why else would the Chapter tolerate such an aberrant defect in their Gene-seed lest it was exceedingly useful.

Nimodes looked at the squad and said, "So young ones, that farm lies between us and our extraction point: what are our options?"

Fiett said, "Circumvent it, go around the perimeter in the darkness. Stay under cover of the forest and resume our march once we are on the other side."

Therro cut in to say, "That will take us miles out of our way, we can't afford such a delay. We should sneak through the middle of the settlement. Everybody will be locked up tight for the night; we could pass through and leave them none the wiser."

"Risky," countered Arvael, "One woken animal and our position will be given away."

"So," said Therro dismissively, "How are they going to call anybody?"

Suddenly a deep rumble interrupted them as Brother Jediah said, "You're overthinking this. We can march straight through that hovel and kill anyone who tries to stop us."

Arvael's jaw dropped and he said in shock, "Kill civilians?"

Jediah sounded indifferent as he replied, "Why not?"

Arvael couldn't believe that an honoured Brother was advocating such a course and protested, "But they are no threat to us, they are innocents."

Jediah's judgement was brutal as he said, "They are not Imperial citizens, they do not acknowledge the sovereignty of the Emperor. Waste no mercy upon them."

Varma sounded stunned as he asked, "Is it the Chapter's policy to kill non-combatants?"

Jediah snorted, "How many bystanders do you think we kill when we drop Magma-bombs on cities?"

Nimodes jumped in, a furious scowl upon his face as he declared, "Only when it is necessary and unavoidable. War may be our reason for being but violence must be tempered with restraint, lest we fall prey to bloodlust and become no better than the foul Traitors who spat upon their oaths of loyalty to the Emperor. Now we've wasted too much time already, we need to move. We shall infiltrate the farm, sneak through and only engage the locals if absolutely necessary."

The Scouts moved out, creeping over the crest of the hill and approaching the buildings with utmost stealth. Arvael was in the lead and he picked his steps with perfect skill, never putting a foot wrong. Therro was slightly off to his left, clumping along in his heavy boots. Arvael was pondering on what he had heard. He had always known on some level that he would eventually be called upon to do less than honourable deeds, but it had never been an issue so far. All his deployments had been reconnaissance missions or strikes on military outposts and infrastructure. With a flash of maturity, he realised that the training instructors must have been deliberately keeping it so. Filling the youth 's heads with notions of honour and glory, until they were hardened enough to face the less salubrious aspects of an Astartes' life.

As he had been thinking this the Scouts had closed upon the buildings and they stalked up in the darkness. Arvael's eyes were fixed upon the doors and the glowing windows, alert for any reaction from those within. Yet there were no cries of alarm, no clomping of feet and shouted challenges. It seemed that whoever was within was completely oblivious to their presence. With a flush of annoyance, Arvael realised that Therro had been right. It would be easy for the Scouts to simply sneak past the farm and out the other side. They could withdraw and make their way to the extraction point without anyone even knowing that they had ever been here.

Arvael was about to smile, except right then his stomach sank and a wave of nausea passed through him. Then the distant thudding beat of aircraft in the darkness above came to their ears, shattering the stillness of the night. All the Scouts instantly looked for cover but there was none, the forest was too far away to reach before the aircraft arrived and darkness would only go so far in concealing them. Nimodes however was already moving, dashing towards a large barn proclaiming, "Follow me and get in cover."

Quickly the scouts dashed inside, Brother Jediah being the last to go and he dragged the heavy doors shut behind them. Inside they found a few dozing bovine animals, dreamily snoozing the night away. Arvael tensed but the cattle didn't so much as moo, completely indifferent to the intruders in their midst.

Nimodes waved to the scouts to find a viewpoint and Arvael scaled a wooden ladder, finding a small window he could nudge ajar to slip his sniper rifle through the gap. He crouched to peer through the sights and see what was occurring outside. The noise outside was growing thunderous now, a thrashing roar that filled the sky. Then a bright stab light shone out from above, illuminating the area around the farm: had the Scouts not found cover then they would have been lit up for all to see.

Arvael saw a pair of the local's flying machines approaching, closing fast with those blades thrashing above. They were on a straight-line course for the farm, as if they already knew exactly where the Astartes were. There was something wrong with them Arvael realised, nothing he could see but a sickening sense of greasy taint that surrounded them. The aircraft closed in and came to hover over the farm, then doors opened in the sides and black-clad figures leapt out. There was no pause to lower ladders or rappel down, the beings inside simply stepped out and dropped thirty feet, landing on their feet in perfect crouches. An Astartes could have done it, even a scout could have pulled it off with care, but for mere mortals it shouldn't have been possible.

Arvael trained his rifle upon those newcomers, seeking understanding but curiosity instantly turned to revulsion the second he focussed on them. To all outward appearances they were merely men, dressed in carapaces eerily similar to the Scout's own plate. These were more of the ones Brother Jediah had called Sturmtruppes, yet the mere sight of them made Arvael's guts churn and his bile rose. There was something fundamentally wrong with these men, a foulness that screamed its wickedness for all to see. It was like they were covered in an oil-slick, a shimmering stain of otherness that clung to them wherever they went. Arvael felt like he was having a vision, but he was wide awake and he was stunned that the other Scouts were not throwing up at the sight.

Arvael forced his revulsion down and swallowed his bile as he saw the newcomers spread out in a search pattern. They were sweeping the farm, looking for the scouts as the aircraft kept sweeping overhead. Arvael heard a banging crash and shouts from the farmhouse then the front door opened and a man appeared, holding a shotgun and shouting a challenge. The newcomers didn't hesitate to respond, spinning on their heels and unleashing wrist mounted stubbers. The farmer collapsed in a hail of projectile rounds and a woman's voice screamed.

Arvael's jaw dropped but these filthy things weren't done yet. Even as he watched five of them charged into the house, three at the front and two round the back. There were the noises of woman and children screaming in terror but then they were cut off by the roar of stubbers and the harsh laughter of cruel men.

Arvael's hatred rose in his heart, these degenerates were killing their own people. He was offended by the very idea of it and an overwhelming urge to dispense justice filled him. Without even thinking about it he focussed his sniper rifle upon the nearest of them and his finger fell to the trigger. He was stopped by a hand upon his shoulder and looked up to see Sergeant Nimodes standing over him. Nimodes seemed to know what he was thinking and shook his head saying, "Come, we have to go now."

Arvael's anger rose and he frantically snarled, "No we have to stay, we can fight and kill them all."

Nimodes looked weary and Arvael knew that he shared the urge to slay these criminals but the Sergeant declared, "The mission comes first."

Arvael swallowed his ire, the Sergeant was right. While the Sturmtruppes were distracted killing civilians the scouts could slip away. As long as they avoided the aircraft then they could withdraw with Brother Jediah's vital information. Arvael saw the squad quickly climbing out of a window at the back of the barn and hastily joined them. He stowed his rifle and clambered through, finding himself in an inky darkness, surrounded by his squad. Ahead of them were the dark fields and beyond those the hills and forests that promised blessed cover from the aircraft. All they had to do was reach it.

The squad was about to set off but sadly fate intervened.

As they took their first steps Novice Therro's boot swung out and without realising it he kicked a discarded bucket. The metal pail span away in a clattering peal of noise, rolling over and over as it bounced away. Arvael's jaw dropped at Therro's blunder and he dared to hope for a moment that the noise would be lost in the thunder of the aircraft's blades. It was a fool's hope for a second later there were a series of bestial roars and then five Sturmtruppes raced around the corner of the barn. They charged at the Scouts with furious bellows of anger and as they ran their faces and hands distorted, growing claws, fangs and twisted horns right before the Scout's eyes.


	12. Chapter 12

**Captum Ante Chapter 12**

The Sturmtruppes charged around the corner of the barn with the stab-lights of the aircraft blazing behind them. They ran straight at the waiting Astartes with feral cries upon their lips, and bestial rage on their faces. As they charged their faces and hands distorted, twisting to form horns, fangs and long claws that made them seem not quite human.

The Storm Heralds weren't caught off guard though, with Transhuman speed they lifted their weapons and let fly. A storm of bolt and shotgun blasts caught the mutating foes dead on, penetrating their carapace plate and blowing chunks of flesh free. The Sturmtruppes staggered and slowed for a heartbeat but then flesh began to reweave itself, growing back missing body parts in seconds. At the back of the squad, Arvael had fallen to one knee, bringing up his sniper rifle with a round already chambered. His weapon was powerful but cumbersome and slow to reload: he would only have time for one shot. He peered through the scope and saw the Sturmtruppes advancing once more, the magnification letting him see the muscles and sinews of their bodies growing back.

Arvael almost went for a heart shot but then he saw one of the mutants already had a large hole blown in its chest and that had not slowed it down at all. The scout instantly shifted his aim, lifting the rifle until it pointed right at his target's head. He breathed for a moment to steady his aim and then when the foe was barely a metre away, he fired. The rifle kicked hard into his shoulder and a single round emerged, spinning gently as it soared right into his target's eye and blew out its brain. The Strumtruppe collapsed bonelessly as he sank into death's embrace, his ability to regenerate unable to repair such catastrophic damage. There was no time for another shot so Arvael dropped his rifle and drew his combat blade ready for the fight to come.

As the Sturmtruppes charged into combat Sergeant Nimodes leapt to meet one, his own blade flashing and scoring at exposed flesh. He spun and stabbed over and over, drawing blood but each wound closed the second he made it. In return the mutant lashed about with long claws, trying to catch the Sergeant and rip out his guts. Nimodes danced away, engaging the enemy in a ballet of cuts and slashes that dazzled the eye with its speed and grace.

Meanwhile Brother Jediah met a Sturmtruppe with his own roar of rage. The witch flung a hand at him but Jediah swayed back and the claws missed his skin by a hairsbreadth. He struck back with his Fractal-edged short sword, carving a groove in the mutant's arm. The Sturmtruppe shrieked in pain at the merest touch of the blade and its wound did not close. The freak's unnatural powers no match for the endlessly complex, infinitely sharp, edge of the weapon.

Jediah looked as surprised as the mutant at the turn of events but he did not relent in his attacks. Hacking and slashing over and over, Jediah advanced in a frenzy of blows as he bellowed the Chapter's ancient warcry. The Sturmtruppe was forced to fall back before him, countering with its claws as the mutant tried to fend off this relentless destroyer.

The veterans were fighting hard but unfortunately that left two Sturmtruppes unaccounted for, and they were already charging at the remaining scouts. The Storm Heralds split up into pairs, Therro and Fiett meeting one and Arvael and Varma the other. Therro let off repetitive blasts from his shotgun, blowing chunks of the foe away as Fiett dashed about, slashing with his blade and withdrawing.

Meanwhile Arvael met the other Sturmtruppe with a slash of his blade, feeling like he had hit a rock as the edge bounced off iron-hard skin. He stumbled back and barely missed being decapitated by a wide sweep of long claws then he countered another blow with his knife. There was a thunderous retort as Varma let fly with his bolter on full automatic, blasting large holes in the Sturmtruppe's spine, barely missing Arvael as he did so.

Arvael snarled as he saw the flesh of the mutant reknitting itself before his eyes and he shouted, "Throne's sake Varma, body shots are no use. Go for the head!"

Varma nodded and hastily reached for a fresh clip but his moment of delay cost him, as the Sturmtruppe roared and swung its arm in a wide backhand. The blow caught Varma in the chest and sent him flying, tumbling head over heels as he hit the ground. Arvael snarled at the sight and tried to angle back into the fight but the mutant was already moving. With a bellow of feral might the Sturmtruppe crashed bodily into him, smashing both of them into the ground and knocking his combat blade out of his hand.

Arvael felt the wind go out of him as the Sturmtruppe bore down on top of him. He frantically reached for his blade but it was out of reach and he could not lay a finger upon it. The Sturmtruppe leered and lunged forward, smashing their heads together and making Arvael see stars before his eyes. Arvael's anger rose and he lashed out with his fist, catching the Sturmtruppe alongside the head. The witches' head snapped back but then he came back with a wide grin. Slowly he extended a long black tongue with a forked tip, then he ran it over the Scout's face. Arvael shuddered as the tongue caressed his skin, leaving a slimy trail over his face.

As the Sturmtruppe gloated Arvael desperately looked about for a weapon but there was nothing, only his combat blade lying tantalisingly out of reach. Arvael tried to reach for it again, but it was futile. The blade lay over a foot away from his grasping fingers; it might as well have been on another world. The Sturmtruppe grinned and drew back a hand, long claws dripping some foul black substance, which hissed as it sizzled upon the scout's carapace armour. The mutant paused and then between his fangs hissed, "Harbinger wants you."

The words sparked something within Arvael's hearts, a looming sense of dread and foreboding unlike anything he had ever experienced before. An overwhelming sense that he had to get away filled him and panic stirred in his hearts. He tried to reach for his blade again, stretching for all he was worth, calling upon everything he had.

Then something truly odd happened.

Time seemed to slow before Arvael's eyes and everything in the world took on a radiant glow. There was a rushing roar in his ears, the pounding of his hearts beating rapidly. A strange tingle ran over his skin, a burning smell arose and his saliva sizzled on his tongue. He felt like every nerve in his body was firing at once as an electric charge ran through him, filling him with potency. Arvael tried to push the sensation away but it was like lying upon an ant's nest, a billion tiny itches running over and through him. His mind seemed to be running faster than ever before and he felt like he could do anything in that moment. He tried to shake off the notion, to focus upon the fight but then a tiny voice at the back of his mind whispered: don't fight this feeling, use it.

Arvael blinked and then before his eyes a billion lines of silver erupted, connecting everything he could see to absolutely everything else. For a moment Arvael saw how the universe was held together, the attraction between atoms and the forces of gravity and energy that kept galaxies spinning and planets in orbits around their stars. Everything was connected; everything was bound to everything else.

Was this death, Arvael wondered, but then he had never felt more alive.

In that frozen moment, Arvael looked again at his blade and it was so obvious to him now that it was already bound to his hand. Arvael didn't reach for it, he didn't have to. A heady rush swept through him and then somehow, impossibly the blade was moving. It rose off the ground by a millimetre and then soared through the air, flying right into his waiting hand.

Arvael felt the heavy thud reverberate through his arm as the weight of the blade settled in his palm and then he struck. The point of his blade speared upwards, driving right into the mouth of the mutant. He angled it upwards into the braincase and it erupted out of the back of the head in a spray of black blood.

There was a moment of tranquillity and then Sturmtruppe went deathly still and his arm fell limp. He sagged as death took him and Arvael gasped as the weight of the body fell down upon him, crushing him into the dirt. The scout drew a deep breath and then heaved hard, rolling the body off to one side. On wobbly legs he stood up and then he looked down at his fallen opponent.

Arvael didn't know what had just happened; it all seemed like something from a dream or one of his visions. Yet here he was standing over his defeated foe with a blade in hand. Everything looked normal now, so he couldn't be sure whether anything he had experienced had been real or a delusion conjured by his stressed mind. He glanced at his wrist chrono and was stunned to realise that the entire fight had taken barely a minute; to him it had felt like hours.

Arvael looked about in confusion, seeking to see how the rest of the squad were faring. He found that the remaining Sturmtruppes had fallen, each one cut down by the superior Astartes. Two of the Sturmtruppes were laid out, each one bested by a veteran Astartes warrior. Meanwhile Therro had one foot upon another foe's corpse, holding up a decapitated head triumphantly as Fiett wiped his gory blade upon his fatigues. Sergeant Nimodes was helping Novice Varma to his feet but he gave Arvael a curious look as he did so. Arvael broke eye contact, not wanting to answer any questions. He bent to retrieve his sniper rifle, checking that its scope was still aligned.

He was about to ask what they would do next but at that moment there was a terrible roar from the other side of the farm and Arvael remembered that there were still the Sturmtruppes in the farmhouse yet to deal with. Nimodes however seemed to have different ideas, he glanced about then shouted, "Come on, double time, we have to go now! Move it lads, we have to reach the Stormraven before they catch us!"

Instantly the squad broke into a flat sprint, running as fast as their legs could carry them. There was a thrashing noise as the aircraft moved to track them but they could not stop the Astartes. Of far more concern were the bestial cries of the remaining Sturmtruppes, right on their heels.

As the scouts ran for the treeline Arvael, kept replaying the fight over in his mind and he had no explanation for what had occurred. He wondered if he should tell Sergeant Nimodes and the others what he had experienced but at the back of his mind a tiny voice whispered that they wouldn't understand, how could they when he didn't understand it himself.

He resolved not to mention the matter to the others, not until he figured out exactly what was going on.


	13. Chapter 13

**Captum Ante Chapter 13**

High upon the mountain the forest thinned out, becoming a few scraggly boughs as it gave way to snow-capped peaks. The snow would have been pristine and white in the daytime but at night it was black and silky smooth. The air was freezing cold at this altitude and no man would come here, save those with pressing business.

However this night people were advancing, running hard as they emerged from the treeline. It was the Scouting party and they were moving flat out, sprinting as fast as their augmented physiology could carry them. At the back of the group Arvael was clinging onto his sniper rifle as he ran. Its bulk and length were hardly conducive to haste but he refused to drop it. The weapon was older than he was and it had been impressed upon him repeatedly that he was responsible for returning it to the Chapter.

Ahead of him Sergeant Nimodes was setting a fierce pace, urging them to stay ahead of their pursuers. Arvael knew that their foes were less than a minute behind and right on their tails. They could turn and engage, but that was risky, there were no guarantees in combat and even an Astartes could fall. The important thing here was the mission, the extraction of the information was all. Stopping to fight was counter to that objective so could not be countenanced. As they ran Nimodes was awakening his vox, shouting, "Scout team to Stormraven, scout team to Stormraven. Recognition code: Pegasus-seven-tango. We are en-route with enemies in hot pursuit, request immediate suppression and extraction!"

Ahead of them Arvael saw a nondescript hillock suddenly expand, swelling upwards and spilling off a light dusting of snow as a furious roar erupted. The shape billowed up like a sail, before it ripped free and blew away. It had been a camo-net, discretely shrouding a larger form beneath it. The shape had a squat, bulky body with large down-swept wings and a long fuselage that turned into a crossed tail. Embedded in its nose were the gleaming barrels of a twin heavy bolter and above sat a servitor guided turret, with twin-linked assault cannons. It was a Stormraven gunship, small, fast and manoeuvrable, perfect for a stealth infiltration mission like this.

Smoothly the turret rotated until it pointed over the heads of the oncoming scouts, then with a bellow of rage it fired its assault canons. A torrent of rounds flew over the Scout's heads, sweeping back and forth as the turret sprayed deadly shots back the way they had come. The onslaught of fire was tremendous and it lit up the night, but Arvael wasn't watching.

He put his head down and clutched his sniper rifle as he ran up the Stormraven's assault ramp and then climbed up into the troop bay. Inside he found himself confronted by rows of restraint cages, several already filled by his squad mates. He hurriedly flung himself into one and stowed his rifle, then pulled the cage down over his head. Further along the row Nimodes was also locking himself in as he cried, "Brace yourselves lads!"

Barely had the words left his mouth when the hand of god pressed down upon them. Massive G-forces crushed them all as the Stormraven shot forwards, riding on a cushion of vector thrust. The world twisted and inertia hammered the squad as the gunship lifted its nose, standing upon a pillar of fire to blaze vertically upwards. The gunship roared and rattled as it furiously climbed, leaving their pursuers behind as it rose to heights the civilisation below could only dream of. For long minutes there was only the wailing and roaring of the engines and Arvael could do nothing but hold on for dear life. Then with no warning at all the noise and vibration fell away and he found himself weightlessly hovering in his cage. There was only one conclusion: they had reached space.

From further down the row Therro breathed out and said, "Well… that was boring."

"Pah, this was nothing," spat Fiett, "The ride down Glaeba, now that was rough."

Arvael shook his head, knowing that their bravado was just a way of dealing with their stress. The Scout's Hypno -indoctrination was not yet complete and they still had to process the stress of the fight and evacuation. Only once they were full initiates would they shrug it off like it was nothing.

Speaking of which.

Arvael twisted his head to spy on Sergeant Nimodes but saw that he was engaged in a furious discussion with Brother Jediah. It looked quite animated, the two making chopping gestures and pointing accusingly. Arvael tried to listen in but his hearing wasn't quite that good yet and the pair seemed to be talking in some battle-cant that he hadn't been taught. It must be some high-level matter, Arvael thought, one that the Scouts weren't cleared for.

Arvael was brought back by Therro who was saying, "Do you think we will win any glory for this?"

Fiett responded, "Surely we will, we spilled blood this day. Glory will abound, the other scout teams will turn green with even when they hear of our deeds."

From the other side of the bay Varma hesitatingly said, "Arvael will surely win honours, he killed two."

Arvael really didn't want to talk about the fight below and demurred, "Well I had help."

Therro missed the hesitancy in his voice and grumbled, "I can't see a bloody thing out of this gunship. There's a whole fleet of starships out there, troop ships, frigates and a bloody strike cruiser. We spent weeks on the Ticonderoga sailing to this misbegotten world and I haven't even seen her from the outside.

Fiett grinned like a man who knew a secret and commented, "I heard the Inquisition has sent a Black Ship, to round up the local Psykers once the invasion is done. Wouldn't you like to see that?"

"Does Guilliman sit much?" blasphemed Therro in amazement, "That's something I have to see."

Arvael sank back and let the conversation wash over him as he drifted into his memories. As the others talked he replayed the strange events that had occurred, the impossible miracle he had experienced. It seemed so strange to him, like the memory of a dream but somehow it was too sharp and defined to be a passing fantasy. He could remember the sight of his blade moving, the heady rush filling him and the thud of the hilt slapping into his palm. It was unlike any vision he had experienced before and he didn't know what to make of it. He toyed with the idea that it could be a miracle sent by the Emperor, but he dismissed that notion. He had never heard of such direct and tangible intervention and it seemed unlikely that he would be deemed worthy of divine intervention.

Arvael pondered if he should tell Sergeant Nimodes about the experience but a tiny voice in the back of his mind whispered that he had better not. Better to keep this quiet until he understood it himself, besides it might never happen again. Arvael decided to keep his mouth shut and hope that the matter went away by itself, if it did come up again then he would address the issue.

Suddenly Arvael was knocked out his brooding by a huge lurch and the crushing sensation of deceleration, pressing him forward into his cage. He had felt this before, it was the Stormraven braking hard, coming in for a landing. Nimodes called out from his own restraint cage, "Look alive lads, prepare to disembark."

For long seconds the gunship braked, then there was a static bang and the hull rattled. Arvael knew that this was caused by the Stormraven passing through an atmospheric integrity shield and transitioning from vacuum to a pressurised atmosphere. It was always a rough shift, rattling gunships hard enough to make them feel like they were shaking apart. Yet Imperial craft were built to take such beatings and the Stormraven settled back to normal as it came in for a landing. With a thud the Stormraven set down, its landing claws hissing as they took the weight and its engines quietening as they cycled down. The Scouts grunted as they felt the heavy burden of gravity reassert itself, pressing them hard onto the floor. The senior Brothers were already out of their own cages and were moving to the forward ramp at a brisk pace. The Scouts let themselves out of the cages and collected their weapons, following their leaders out of the hatch and walking down the ramp.

What they found was a large hanger, filled with bustling serfs and servitors. These were tending to veritable fleets of vehicles, Thunderhawks gunships and Transporters, Stormtalons, Stormhawks and heavy cargo lifters. It was a picture of ordered efficiency and a sight that the Scouts were rapidly becoming familiar with: the launch bay of the Strike Cruiser Ticonderoga. The Scouts walked away from the Stormraven, which was clinking as ice formed on its void chilled hull. They ignored the bustling Serfs and without having to be told to they formed a line, waiting for their Sergeant to dismiss them. The senior Brothers nodded to each other in respect and then Jediah stepped off to one side, so Nimodes could address the novices.

Sergeant Nimodes stood proudly before the Squad and declared, "Scout-Novices, you have fought well and brought much honour to the Storm Heralds Chapter. You should be proud of yourselves, yet know that an Astartes is never off duty, never off guard. Even in the heady moments of victory, you must be ever alert and ready to spring into action at a moment's notice. So get to your barracks, consecrate your wargear and prepare to be debriefed. Now move out."

The Scouts saluted with the sign of the Aquila then trooped from the launch bay in a tight knot. Arvael however was brought up short when the Sergeant called his name. He stopped and turned back saying, "Yes Sergeant?"

Nimodes nodded to one side and said, "I require a private word."

Arvael gazed at his retreating comrades, who glanced back curiously as they marched out. He drew in a breath then moved to stand before the veteran. He stood straight and said, "How may I be of service?"

Nimodes hesitated then, something Arvael had never seen him do before and he said, "How do you think the mission went?"

Arvael's thought instantly flashed back to the fight and the strange occurrences there but all he said was, "It was unique, a most unusual mission from the start."

Nimodes nodded at that then commented, "You did well, taking down two of those Unsanctioned Psykers, a noteworthy achievement."

Arvael really didn't want to talk about that so replied, "Thank you, Sergeant."

Then Nimodes eyed him with a curious expression and said, "Arvael… is there anything you want to add to your report. Anything I should know?"

Arvael swallowed in trepidation and he wondered exactly what Nimodes had seen on the planet. What did the Sergeant know and what did he suspect? Hesitantly Arvael stammered, "No… no Sergeant."

The Sergeant stared at him for a long moment, making Arvael sweat under the piercing gaze. Then Nimodes sagged slightly and lowered his head saying, "In that case I am sorry… so very sorry."

Arvael was perplexed by that and asked in bewilderment, "Sorry for what?"

Nimodes looked up, regret written all over his face as he declared, "For this."

At that moment Arvael felt an unexpected presence behind his back and he turned to see a half naked Transhuman standing behind him. It was Brother Jediah; while they had been talking he had surreptitiously crept up behind the Scout and was now looming over him. Before Arvael could react Jediah struck, swinging his short sword so that he caught the Scout in the back of the head with the pommel of the blade's hilt.

Arvael felt the impact upon his skull like a thunderbolt from above. The blow knocked the sense from him and he fell down, his head swimming and stars flashing before his eyes. Arvael felt like he was sinking down into a dark pit and the world shrank as he fell into unconsciousness.

As darkness took him the last thing he heard was Brother Jediah snarling, "Get this cur to a cell, one of the warded ones we use for Heretics. And someone vox Captain Toran, inform him that we have uncovered a Witch hiding within our ranks."


	14. Chapter 14

**Captum Ante Chapter 14**

All over the night side of Camollum people were sleeping, blissfully dreaming, secure in the knowledge that they were safe and protected. They knew that their world was alone in the dark, impregnable and sheltered by its splendid isolation. For three hundred years they had been undisturbed in their tranquillity and nobody could conceive of any dangers to their world, other than those that they made themselves.

What they did not know was that far above their heads orbited vast metal leviathans, immense Warp-capable starships each bristling with weapons and filled to bursting with troops. There were fat troop transports, Mass-conveyors packed with munitions and fuel, watchful frigates and even a single solitary vessel that bore the stylised 'I' of the Inquisition. This was an imperial invasion fleet, armed and ready for war.

Amidst the drifting shoals of vessels was a sleek killer, with huge engines arrays, thick armour and bristling with guns. Its scars were a testament to the wars it had seen and its hull bore the proud spiral in a starburst icon that was the badge of the Storm Herald's Chapter. She was the Ticonderoga, a full Strike Cruiser and she was currently hosting the Third Company.

Deep within her bowels a meeting was taking place, a gathering of senior leaders. They met in a plain briefing room, favouring the simple functionality of the chamber over the ornate gilding of the ship's Chapels and feasting halls. Those would be saved until the victory was won.

In the chamber was a Hololthic table, projecting a Strategic simulation of the world below and the current disposition of its armed forces. Standing on one side of that table was Brother Jediah, proudly facing the room in a short robe. His power armour was waiting for him, but that would have to wait until the meeting was done. To his side was Sergeant Nimodes, in his battered Scout-armour. He was stood ramrod straight as he delivered his report to the room.

On the other side of the table was the supreme Commander of this expedition: Third Captain Toran in his gleaming artificer armour. He was a scarred and grizzled warrior, with a red augmetic eye and a long relic blade at his hip: the revered Sword of Thiel. Jediah knew him well and thought that he was young for his role and prone to overthinking things. Yet there was also fire in his soul and steel in his spine, his strength and determination demanded respect.

Standing to the Captain's right was Chaplain Wrethan. Jediah knew the Chaplain tried to project a fierce and cantankerous demeanour, but sometimes he would slip and let his paternal pride show. To the Captain's other side was Apothecary Memnos, a more reasonable and rational warrior. Yet when it came to the welfare of those under his care he could be as stubborn and intransigent as Rogal Dorn himself.

Captain Toran was speaking, "This is most perturbing, Imperial spies did not anticipate such a volatile situation."

Apothecary Memnos agreed saying, "The Missionaria Galaxia was supposed to prepare this world for assimilation but all they have done is to increase local tensions. Half the planet embraces the Emperor as a God, the other half is prepared to go to war to deny it."

Chaplain Wrethan spoke up to say, "Hardly a challenge, this world's military is weak and their weapons poor. Bring them to battle and annihilate them, when the Imperial boot is on their neck they will yield."

"Would that it were so simple," declared Nimodes, "The vexing issue here is that both sides have built up a large stockpile of Atonomic bombs. They are low-yield but particularly dirty, if we give them a chance they will irradiate the whole planet."

"Let them," remarked Wrethan, "What does it matter if they kill themselves?"

Jediah somewhat agreed but Toran spoke up to say, "That is not acceptable, the High Lords want this world taken intact. Its industries, such as they are and resources must be preserved."

Chaplain Wrethan spat, "Pah, those fools have no idea what's happening out here. Why should we care what quill-pushers on Terra want?"

Toran shook his head and explained, "Consider the wider strategic situation, the Imperium is beset on all sides. Tyranids attacking from beyond the galactic plane, the Great Beast moves towards Armageddon and now dark omens from the Cadian Gate. The Imperium is haemorrhaging to death and we will not survive without fresh blood. If we are to survive then we need new, viable worlds, not irradiated wastelands."

Jediah hated to admit it but he could see the sense of that. He raised his voice to say, "What of the Witches?"

Wrethan growled, "Filthy heretics, how could the locals let such scum survive?"

Jediah replied, "I do not know, but they are far more numerous and powerful than we were led to believe. They are embedded in the culture here and will not be easy to remove."

Toran rubbed his chin and remarked, "The Inquisition has ring-fenced the matter, they care nothing for the planet but they want the Psykers. They think to capture them, to ship them off to Terra to service the Emperor's needs."

Jediah shook his head and said, "They are too well organised and intractable to capture, I would recommend a total purge."

Toran lowered his head and said, "I will present that conclusion to Inquisitor Zerban."

"Zerban," growled Wrethan, "That cur hates us, he would rather see the whole Chapter purged than work with us."

Toran sighed and said, "Alas he commands the Inquisition forces here and we must work with him. Be grateful that the High Lord's political infighting meant we ended up in command of the whole invasion force, instead of a Departmento Munitorum appointed functionary. Zerban would override a Guard General without hesitation but he would not dare to argue with an Astartes over military strategy."

Nimodes interjected, "Speaking of which, what are we going to do about the invasion?"

Toran answered, "We will have to revise our plans, neutralising the threat of the Atonomic bombs must be the first priority. Jediah I want you on this, the information you retrieved will be essential."

That sounded like a dismissal but Jediah spoke up to say, "What of the other matter?"

"Yes," agreed Nimodes, "What about young Arvael?"

Apothecary Memnos spoke up to say, "I am confused by your report, Arvael is a visionary. Could this not be a symptom of his gene-flaw?"

"We all assumed it was the flaw," Nimodes replied, "But in truth it was but a mask for a far more perilous mutation. Jediah and I both witnessed him manifest eldritch powers, impossible feats that only a Psyker could perform."

Wrethan asked, "What exactly did you see?"

Nimodes explained, "What we took to be visions were in fact an ability to scry over great distances, possibly even a form of clairvoyance. Arvael has also demonstrated the power of Telekinesis and possibly even traces of Telepathy."

Toran mused thoughtfully, "He is rather is old to be revealing his power now, most Psykers manifest at a much younger age. How could he have concealed this for so long?"

Nimodes answered, "He may not have been aware of it himself or his subconscious mind may have been suppressing it. He may be in serious denial about what he is."

Jediah couldn't believe that they were talking about this like the mutant was a broken Bolter and he barked, "He's a Witch, a warp-touched freak! What are we waiting for? Slit his throat and throw his body out an airlock before he opens a portal and lets a horde of Daemons into our midst!"

Everybody started at that but Nimodes barked, "Kill him out of hand?"

Jediah snarled, "Of course, he's too great a danger to let live."

Nimodes protested, "Arvael has fought loyally and well for our Chapter, he has proved his worth in battle."

"Irrelevant," Jediah spat, "It would be the perfect cover for a mole to infiltrate our Chapter. The boy could be nothing but a cunning ruse for Chaos. All it would take is one Daemon to possess his mind and it could destroy our whole Chapter."

Nimodes countered, "But what has he actually done wrong?"

"He is a Witch," Jediah snarled, "That's enough in itself but then he lied about it to your face."

"The boy was scared and in denial," countered Nimodes desperately, "The lie he shall pay penance for but to kill him out of hand…"

Jediah growled angrily, "You speak up for him out of affection, you're letting your fondness for the child cloud your judgement."

Nimodes barked back, "And you let your bloodlust drive you. Admit it; you would have killed Arvael on the spot if I had not stopped you!"

"Enough!" Memnos shouted as he broke into the argument, "Let us not be hasty, a Psyker can be a potent weapon in the Chapter's arsenal. You've all seen the power of the Librarius at work; even one of them can turn the course of a battle. Let the Librarians take him in hand, they can judge his worth and train him if he proves pure and uncorrupted."

Jediah growled, "We have no Librarian with us to vouch for his soul. It would take too long to return him to the Fortress-monastery, we should kill him now."

Wrethan asked thoughtfully, "Could we put him in stasis until a later time?"

Memnos shook his head and said, "I don't think that's a good idea, the fact that he's mature speaks volumes. He must have been suppressing his power on some level. If we take away his conscious mind then it could release the very threat we seek to avoid, even stasis is no guarantee against the Warp. Putting Arvael into stasis could very well be the most dangerous thing we could possibly do."

Jediah snorted and said, "So we're back to killing him."

Suddenly Captain Toran thumped the table and declared, "Shame upon your words! You are all forgetting that Arvael is one of us, a Storm Herald by blood, vow and deed. Does our brotherhood mean so little to you? Would you become kinslayers so easily? I will not allow it and I will not condemn one of our own without first having just cause."

"But…" said Jediah.

"My decision is final," growled Toran and there was that steel in his organic eye that let Jediah know that this was an argument he would not win.

Everybody settled back and Wrethan said, "So what now, do we just keep him in a warded cell until we return to Lujan II?"

Toran shook his head and said, "No, I do not trust him to go unguarded, we shall keep him close to us."

Jediah was confused now and said, "You're letting him out to run free?"

Toran elaborated, "No, not at all. Long ago the imperium faced a similar crisis and from that arose the Edicts of Nikaea, orders that Psykers shall suppress their abilities. The decree was sadly superceded by the events of the Horus Heresy but the tenants are still technically Imperial law."

Everybody paused at that, the Edicts were the Emperor's own decree, to refute them was to question the Emperor himself. Captain Toran continued, "Chaplain Wrethan, are you familiar with the specifics?"

Wrethan nodded and said, "Very familiar, enforcing the Edict was the first purpose of the Chaplaincy. There are mantras and chants, wards and artefacts available. I can teach the boy how to suppress his power."

"Good," declared Toran, "I want you to confront Arvael and explain to him the situation. Tell him that he must swear a solemn vow to abstain from using his abilities until he is delivered to the Librarians for training."

Nimodes pleaded, "Let me go with you, it will be hard for him to hear that he will be forever separated from his squadmates."

Toran nodded in agreement then said, "You must deal with this matter, while I prepare our forces for the coming invasion."

"So that's it?" spat Jediah in disgust, "We choose to trust a Witch?"

Toran snorted and said, "Far from it, I said that Arvael must swear a vow of abstinence but I never said that we would not test him. Arvael will rise or fall on his own merits and by his own will. Wrethan, Jediah I want one of you to stay close to the boy at all times and watch him like a hawk. At the first sign that he is breaking his vow, the first hint that he is using arcane powers or channelling the Warp, then I want you to take your weapons and cut out his heart."

Jediah grinned and eagerly cracked his knuckles as he said, "Gladly."


	15. Chapter 15

**Captum Ante Chapter 15**

Deep within the Strike Cruiser Ticonderoga there was a cell, a dark dank brig for the most dangerous of prisoners. Like all jails it boasted thick walls and reinforced doors, behind series of locks and guards. Yet it was also different, for most brigs weren't lined with obsidian and covered in strange wards and silver hieroglyphs. In the centre of the cell was a large cage, twelve foot to a side. This too was plated in obsidian and engraved with adjurations and runes of aversion.

Squatting at the dead centre of that cage was young Arvael, knees drawn up to rest his chin upon them. He had been stripped of his weapons and armour and now was dressed in a short robe that showed off his enhanced muscles and bone structure. His skin was mostly unscarred and smooth, save for the occasional neural interface buried in his flesh. He had yet to receive his Black Carapace implant but otherwise was well on the way to full ascension, not that that seemed likely anymore. Arvael was fighting to hold back his despair and dread, the ominous implications of his imprisonment threatening to overwhelm him. His mind was awhirl with possibilities and dark futures, wondering what had happened and what was to come. The cage wasn't helping either.

Arvael had never seen this part of the ship but when he awoke he had hated it on sight. Everything in the brig seemed designed to set him on edge, the walls were too close and enclosing, the air was too thick and musty and even the lighting was harsh and unforgiving. He had first tried to lean back against the bars of his cage but their vile touch had made his skin crawl and he hastily backed off. Now he sat in the dead centre of the cage, trying to keep as far away from everything as he possibly could as he thought upon his fate.

Somehow he knew all this was tied to the strange events on the planet below. That the older Storm Heralds had witnessed the peculiar happenings was certain and that did not bode well. Arvael was certain that they would blame him for the odd occurrence and he knew enough of the Imperium to be afraid of what they would do next, the judgement they would meet out. Yet in his heart of hearts he wasn't sure that they would be wrong to do so, he was worried about what it could mean himself. A dark suspicion was growing within him, one that he was trying desperately not to articulate in his conscious mind.

His introspections were interrupted as a black door slid open in the wall and three silhouettes were etched out before him. They stepped forward, seemingly oblivious to the distressing set up of the brig. Arvael was surprised to see it was his squad mates, Therro, Fiett and Varma. They trooped in and Therro cheekily called, "Well what have you gone and done now?"

Arvael was surprised to see them and said, "What are you doing here?"

Fiett said, "The Masters said we should come and talk to you."

Arvael didn't like the sound of that, the only reason he could think of that they would be let in here would be to say final goodbyes. As he watched the three spread out, Varma standing back, Fiett dropping to sit cross-legged upon the ground and Therro leaning against the bars of the cage. Arvael was stunned that the scout could bear to touch them, but he seemed oblivious to their vile texture as he quieried, "So, are you going to tell us what you did to warrant getting thrown into the dankest cell on the ship."

"I don't know," replied Arvael hesitantly.

"Seriously?" asked Varma, "You must have some idea, they wouldn't lock you away for nothing."

Arvael shook his head and said, "I can't think of anything."

Fiett chewed his lip for a moment then said, "Did you abuse your wargear's Spirit, raise your hand to a Sergeant or speak ill of the Primarch?"

Arvael spat, "No, no and no."

Therro said, "Well you must have done something, this is worse than the time you stuffed Varma's tunic down the latrine and flooded the whole scout-barracks with sewage."

"That was you!" barked Arvael with a frown, "And we all had to clean it up with a micro-lathe afterwards."

Therro grinned and picked at the bars with a fingernail as he said, "Oh yes so it was… worth every hour of scrubbing though."

Varma frowned at the remark and said, "Well whatever it is, we stand with you."

"Yes," Fiett declared, "Were in this together until the end."

Therro added, "One for all and all that other stuff."

"Thank you," said Arvael in gratitude, "I'm touched, I could ask for no better Brothers than you."

At that moment there was a clunk and the door opened a second time, revealing two more forms. One the familiar sight of Sergeant Nimodes, the other the far less welcome sight of Chaplain Wrethan. All the Scouts knew him well, he was the terror of the training cadres and no novice went long without feeling the brutal lash of his tongue.

Everybody stood upright and shrank back from the sight and Wrethan barked, "Get out."

The scouts swallowed in trepidation but Fiett mustered the courage to say, "Father Wrethan, we request permission to stand with Arvael."

Wrethan growled but Nimodes cut him off saying, "They might as well hear this now, better than letting rumours spread. Arvael, do you know why you're here?"

Arvael faced his masters saying, "No Sergeant, I do not."

Wrethan growled, "Another lie, your penance grows with every word."

Varma broke in to say, "Masters, what are we talking about, what has Arvael done?"

Nimodes sighed, "It's not what he's done, it's what he is."

Fiett looked confused and said, "I don't understand, he's one of us. What are we talking about?"

"No, not that," whispered Arvael somehow knowing what the next words would be.

Wrethan however was stern and uncompromising as he pronounced, "Novice Arvael has displayed the taint of the Immaterium, he has been Warp-touched. Arvael is a Psyker."

Arvael's whole world fell out from under him and a yawning pit of despair consumed his heart. The words were so much worse than any else Wrethan could have said; all his previous worries and concerns seemed petty and shallow compared to this. It was the darkest fate Arvael could possibly have imagined. The rest of his squad seemed equally stunned, not knowing how to react at all.

Then there was a shuffling noise and Arvael saw Fiett turn on his heel. He put his back to Arvael and without so much as a word marched out of the brig, not looking back once. Arvael was stunned by his departure but then saw that Therro was shaking head saying, "I can't believe it, all this time..."

Arvael pleaded, "Please Therro…"

"Don't talk to me witch!" spat Therro's as his face filled with anger and then he stormed out.

"Varma," pleaded Arvael in desperation, "Varma please don't…"

Varma looked wracked with shame and guilt but he replied, "Arvael, I'm, I'm sorry…" then he too dashed out, leaving the prisoner alone with the Masters.

Nimodes watched them go and then said, "You had better get used to that, it's going to happen a lot."

"They, they left me," stammered Arvael in disbelief.

Nimodes looked sad as he said, "Don't blame them, a Librarian may be part of the Chapter but he will never truly be accepted as one of the Brotherhood."

"A Librarian?" gasped Arvael not grasping the implications of his situation, "There must be some mistake, I can't become a Librarian."

Nimodes drew in a breath then said, "I know you're in shock, but we need you to move past that. On some level you must have known. Your visions went beyond mere intuition, you knew too much."

Wrethan declared sternly, "There can be no doubt, it was a Psyker's ability and that demands immediate address."

Arvael's hearts were filled with confusion and distress but he refused to yield to it. Despite everything he was still an Astartes and had been trained and indoctrinated to remain functional no matter what. He drew upon his Hypno-indoctrination to centre himself then said, "What should I do?"

Nimodes seemed pleased with the response and he said, "Understand that this is most unusual, your power should have manifested at a much younger age. In the normal course of affairs a Librarian would have detected your abilities upon induction and taken you away for training. Unfortunately our Chapter has never benefitted from an over-abundance of Librarians and we have none with us."

Wrethan growled, "From this point on you have two possible futures, in the first you will swear to me to operate under the Edicts of Nikaea, until you can be returned to the Chapter's Librarius for proper training. You will learn the mantras to suppress your abilities and refrain from the slightest use of your power, on pain of death. Make no mistake you will be held to such an oath, one slip and I will cut you down myself."

Arvael swallowed and asked, "And the other option?"

Nimodes quietly reached down to his belt and drew his bolt pistol. Arvael swallowed nervously as the Sergeant stepped forwards and reversed his grip, presenting the pistol to Arvael. The scout stared at it as if it were a snake and said, "You want me to kill myself?"

Wrethan stated grimly, "It is the kinder option of the two."

Nimodes elaborated, "Understand that without proper training a Psyker is a constant danger, to himself and everyone around him. Your mind is a portal to the Warp, one that Daemons will constantly seek to claim. They will say anything; do anything to claim your mind. No lie is too great, no deceit too vile for them. Nothing will deter them and they will never, ever relent."

Arvael looked again at the bolt pistol, remembering every tale he had heard of Daemonic invasions. Every horror story and fireside tale about the travesties of nightmares a single Psyker, too weak to control his gifts, could unleash. Arvael swallowed in trepidation and said, "I would never accept that, I would rather die than succumb to a Daemon's temptations."

Nimodes and Wrethan glanced at each other and the Sergeant said forlornly, "He doesn't understand."

Wrethan said slowly, "It is not your life that will be threatened."

Arvael frowned but Nimodes explained, "The Daemons won't come at you head on, they will put you in impossible situations and make themselves seem the least horrible option."

Wrethan elaborated, "Imagine that the Chapter was in peril, that your Brothers were facing certain doom. If Therro, Varma or Fiett were about to die before you and a Daemon offered you the power to save them, then could you say no? Could you find the will and the fortitude to watch those you love suffer and die, knowing that you could stop it with a simple yes."

Arvael swallowed at that, realising that his situation was worse than he thought and he said, "What should I do."

"Take the pistol," said Nimodes sadly, "Spare yourself the pain to come, make a clean end of it."

Arvael stared at the pistol and considered it, for long moments he was tempted to just draw the pistol and end it all quickly. He almost reached for it but then he stopped himself. He could not; he was a Storm Herald and he had sworn himself to the duties that came with belonging to such a hallowed order. He drew in a breath and declared, "No… I will not yield to the counsel of despair. This is nothing but surrender by another name. I am Astartes and I shall no know fear."

The Masters didn't look happy or sad, merely drawing back and Wrethan said, "So be it." He reached into a pouch on his belt and drew forth a black talisman that made Arvael's skin crawl merely to look upon, its lines and form repulsive to him on an instinctive level. Wrethan however didn't seem to notice a thing as he said, "You shall wear this Psy-dampener at all times and never take it off."

Wrethan concluded, "Now listen closely, first you shall swear an oath of Abstinence before the Emperor, then you will learn the mantras to suppress your power. Pay close heed, these are the only things standing between you and death… or worse."


	16. Chapter 16

**Captum Ante Chapter 16**

A new day was dawning over Nordlund, bright and clear with glorious rays shining across the land. It shone upon the poor workers as they trudged towards another day in the factories and upon the rich as their ground cars drove to their offices and business premises. Home wives bustled hastily about, preparing awkward children for their day's schooling while those whose lives were less presentable slunk back to their dens, another's night's ill-gotten gains tucked away for safety. Everywhere people went about their daily routines, confident that this would be just one more average day, just like the last one and the one before that.

Little did they know that high in the mountains a different scene was playing out. The Nordlund base was the site of a far more forlorn and dispirited activity. Soldats were trudging back from their sweeps of the mountains, footsore and weary from their long excursion. Many were grumbling about their wasted efforts while others were stoically marching towards their bunks, determined to get some sleep. Everywhere rumours circled about the deaths in the woods and the fearfully tally among their most elite Sturmtruppes. Some were even whispering about seeing a strange craft ascended into the heavens on a column of fire, hurtling upwards beyond the reach of their nation's most potent aircraft. Everywhere the scent of defeat hung heavily, men knowing that their quarry had escaped.

Nowhere was this more apparent than in the Kommandant's office, cleaned and cleared of all evidence of the crimes committed therein. Here two men sat, one of them was Mechaniker Von-Grod who was idly puffing on an iho-stick. The other man was Kommandant Renhardt, who was frantically talking on his handset, "No, I'm telling you there no time, don't wait till tomorrow just get the boys and get out of the city… Get to your mother's old lake-house in the mountains… no I cant tell you why but you have to go now… No it's not the Reds but trust me it's better not to be in the big city… I'll explain everything later, just get out."

Renhardt hung up then sighed and put his face in his hands. Von-Grod stubbed out his iho-stick and said, "Will they listen?"

Renhardt drew his hands over his chin and sighed, "I can only hope, I don't want my grandsons to be anywhere nearby when this goes down."

Von-Grod frowned and said, "Do you think it's going to be that bad?"

Renhardt replied, "I think when it comes down our whole world is going to change."

"It?" asked Von-Grod, "You mean the prisoner?"

Renhardt reluctantly nodded and said, "He had help and the means to escape, that means there are others of his kind out there. They didn't do all this without reason, they must be coming back and I don't think they mean us well."

Von-Grod rubbed his stubbly chin and mused, "Men from the stars and off-world invasions. A few days ago I would have dismissed it all as fantasy and Concordance propaganda. Yet here we are, discussing it as a fact of life."

Renhardt looked at his hands and said, "I only hope the Chancellor takes the warning seriously."

Von-Grod asked, "Do you think Director Neadler can convince him?"

At the mention of that name Renhardt shuddered, his mind drawn back to the hideous things he had witnessed. The impossible darkness he had been exposed to and the dire implications of it. Just thinking about it made him shudder and he desperately wanted to forget everything he had seen. Von-Grod caught the reaction and looked irked as he said, "Dammit man, what's got into you? You've been acting strange ever since you came out of that daft ritual, what did you see?"

Renhardt didn't know how to answer that, how could he explain the sheer visceral horror of what he had experienced. The scene had made him question his entire world-view and left him with the strange impression that his reality was nothing but a board laid across a bottomless pit. Instead of answering the question the Kommandant stood up and walked over to his liquor cabinet. He opened the doors and poured two stiff drinks of dark liquor.

The simple acts gave him time to steady himself and the familiar routine reassured him. He paused and looked at the picture printed on the bottle, one of the most well-known images in Nordlund. It was a wagon train, filled with happy people heading towards an open land of fresh green fields and snow-capped mountains. Renhardt turned the bottle to and fro, examining the picture and said aloud, "Do you ever think about the ancient histories, the fall of the First Kingdom, the exodus of the pioneers and their settlement of Nordlund?"

Von-Grod shrugged and said, "Not really, but every school child knows the tale. The First Kingdom suffered some mysterious calamity and then fell prey to a religious civil war, civilisation fell into anarchy as people fought over mad creeds and tired dogma. Nothing survived the calamity, eventually it descended into being every man for himself, taking whatever they could scavenge or steal."

Renhardt walked back to the desk and placed the drink down then threw himself into a chair and said, "Yes, then the tales tell that a few people decided that enough was enough. They put it all behind them and set out on a mass exodus, travelling as far as they could to the virgin lands of the North. While madmen fought over the ruins of the First Kingdom they settled down, planting crops, raising homes and laying the foundations of a new civilisation."

"Yes," commented Von-Grod taking the drink, "And from that we teach our children that religious doggerel is no match for practical reason. That fancy words and silly beliefs are not worth much compared to a steady food source, a good gun and a safe bed. Rationalism, hard-work, family: the bedrocks of Nordlund."

"Yes family," said Renhardt, "Family is important."

Von-Grod rolled the glass about in his hand and said, "Is there a point to this?"

Renhardt slugged back his drink and said, "It's just the tales always seem to skim over the fact that the pioneers took the psychically gifted with them. The last dregs of what used to be called the Astropath guild."

Von-Grod replied, "So... even Psychics have to eat. Joining the exodus was probably preferable to starving amid crumbling ruins. What does it matter?"

Renhardt commented, "I'm wondering just how much was left out of the histories, how much more was happening that we never knew about. The P.I.A. is the official representation of all psychics in Nordlund, but how much do we really know about them. The records are sealed so we don't even know how many psychics are alive, hundreds, thousands, tens of thousands? We just don't know."

Von-Grod frowned and said, "I don't like this line of reasoning, you sound like one of the Red's zealots. Preaching about the evils of Psychics and how they will bring about the end of the world."

Renhardt reached to pour himself another drink and said, "After what I've seen, I'm starting to worry that they might have a point."

At that moment there was a knock at the door and both men jumped, surprised by the sound. Renhardt hastily put the bottle down and said, "Come in." The door swung back to reveal Director Neadler standing there, his dark glasses reflecting back the room. Neadler strode in and looked at the pair of them then said, "Am I interrupting?"

Renhardt tensed at the presence of the Director, fearful and repulsed by his presence. Yet Von-Grod waved him to a seat saying, "Not really we were just discussing ancient history."

Neadler sniffed in distaste and commented, "Well its current affairs that concern me right now."

Renhardt pushed aside his foreboding and focussed on the practical matters saying, "You've spoken to the Chancellor?"

Neadler answered, "Yes, and he was most disturbed by the implications. Your failure to capture the prisoner could well cause a major crisis."

Von-Grod snorted in derision and said, "It was your Sturmtruppes that failed, they are supposed to be the very best but they were made to look like rutting fools."

Neadler glared at the Mechaniker and commented, "It wasn't a total loss, we did encounter more beings like the prisoner but we also made an important discovery. Among their numbers was one who was projecting potent emanations. We could detect him from here, his power waxed strong."

Von-Grod blinked and said, "They have a psychic too, isn't that a bad thing?"

A faint smile crept onto Neadler's face and he said, "Normally yes it would be, but this power was raw and untested, the hallmark of an untrained novice. I felt the emanations; the user was young and inexperienced, which presents us with some interesting opportunities."

"How so?" asked Von-Grod with a suspicious tone.

Neadler looked rather pleased with himself and said, "Even for experienced Psychics the power can be dangerous but for an untrained novice it is a perilous minefield. Many are the snares for the unwary, especially if we place a few in his path. There are forces and allies we can call upon to aid us, ways to turn a psychic into a weapon against everyone around him."

Von-Grod shook his head and said, "So we're placing our trust in superstition and mysticism now. We must be worse off than I thought."

Neadler growled, "Just because you don't understand it…"

"Don't argue," said Renhardt wearily, "Let us focus on what we're going to do next, what did the Chancellor say?"

Neadler glared at the Mechaniker for a moment then explained, "Kongress is more concerned about the threat of the Concordance so we are keeping this quiet. They wouldn't understand if we started crowing about men from the stars. But unofficially we are raising the alert level, all military assets are being brought to readiness and the senior Marshalls are gathering at Fort Alastagg to be briefed. Also all Atonomic launch sites are being placed on a one-hour notice, if needs be we can issue launch commands from the Chancellor's office, Kongress, Fort Alastagg or the backup facility under mount Daulshorn."

Renhardt gulped in shock and said, "Full-scale Atonomic war, has it really come to that?"

Von-Grod sounded equally shocked and said, "It will be the end of Nordlund, of all Camollum."

"Not the end, merely a change," said Neadler, "Change is the driving force of all life, the true universal constant. The P.I.A. understands that and we have long prepared for this day. True we expected the war to come from the South but still we have not been caught unawares. Our great work has only just begun."

Renhardt thought that the Director sounded positively pleased at the prospect and he shuddered at the implications. He distracted himself by saying, "What do you need me to do?"

Neadler stood up and brushed off his coat then said, "Bring the base to high alert and contact all nearby commands. You have seniority in this area so you may have to assume a more direct role in what is to come. Mighty forces are at work now; we must be ready to meet them."

With that the Director walked out, leaving the two men to ponder on what was about to happen. Renhardt waited a moment then picked up his handset and pressed it to his ear. Von-Grod frowned and said, "What are you doing?"

Renhardt started making a connection and replied, "I'm not waiting a moment longer, I'm sending a couple of Soldats out to collect my family immediately. I don't want my grandsons anywhere near this when whatever he's planning goes off."


	17. Chapter 17

**Captum Ante Chapter 17**

Deep within the Ticonderoga Arvael waited, standing patiently within an empty training hall. He was all alone, stood with nothing to do yet refusing to fidget. He was clad in a short grey tunic with leather vambraces, loose garb for exercising and work-outs. Arvael had been brought here by Chaplain Wrethan and told to wait, so wait he did.

As he stood there Arvael was brooding on the dark fate that had been dealt out to him. All his life he had known he was different, somehow always managing to be faster, quicker and more aware than his peers. He had assumed that he was more focussed and dedicated than most, pushing himself to the limit whilst the other children played.

During the Chapter's annual trials, he had excelled and been chosen to join the Storm Heralds. It had seemed natural at the time, the culmination of his young life's dedication. Then had come his first revelation, which forever set him apart. He had been the only one of his generation to display the gene-flaw and he had loathed how it had created a gulf between him and his kin. Yet that was nothing compared to this, to being a Psyker.

Arvael couldn't truly blame his squadmates for turning their backs on him; he suspected that he would have done the same in their place. Librarians may be respected and influential, but they were not liked and few were comfortable around them. The Imperium accepted wariness of the warp-touched as a matter of gospel and most Astartes viewed fighting alongside one as being like wielding a blade with no hilt.

Arvael would gladly have shed this burden had he been able to but that was impossible. He was stuck like this forever and would have to adapt. The thought of that made him look down upon the psy-dampener hanging around his neck. It was a hateful thing, making his skin crawl to touch. Somehow the relic was dulling his senses, making colours less vibrant and the world seem washed out and grainy. Arvael had never realised how much of his perception was filtered by his psychic abilities, how his mind perceived beyond the mundane surface of reality. Was this how everybody else saw the world all the time, he wondered, how did they bear such a dull existence?

At the back of his mind a tiny voice whispered, why not take it off for a moment. Why not see the world as it should be. Arvael shook off the idea with an angry shake of his head; he had sworn an oath to withhold from using his abilities. An Astartes' word was his bond and he would not break his pledge for anything. He may have lost everything else but he was still an Astartes and he clung to that fact like a lifeline.

Arvael took a moment to study the training hall, a large echoing space with hemispherical cages where Initiates could duel. The hall was festooned with weapons, blunted swords and glaives hanging next to exotic staves and mauls. Many weapons were subtly off balance, curious weights attached in awkward positions to force the warrior to adapt and innovate. Standing absolutely still Arvael gazed at each weapon, calculating the best way to use it and how it would suit him.

He did not know how long he was stood there but after a long time he heard voices approaching. He was surprised to see two initiates entering the hall, talking between themselves. He swallowed nervously as he realised that one of them was Brother Jediah, who did not look happy to be here. But that was nothing compared to the shock he received when he saw that the other was Third-Captain Toran.

Arvael swallowed for he had not expected to be meeting so august and controversial a figure here. Captain Toran was a legend in the Storm Heralds, a young captain who had seen a meteoric rise in the ranks. He had led the defence of the Fortress-Monastery, claiming an impossible victory from the jaws of utter defeat. He had been at the front of the charge at the battle of Angle's Redoubt and he wielded the Sword of Thiel, the Storm Herald's most beloved relic. Yet that very success had given rise to sour rivalry. Even the amongst the scouts Arvael had heard gossip of him being an arrogant usurper, pushing an inflated reputation to advance his cause.

Arvael said none of this as the pair approached and he noted that each was dressed identically to him. Tunics and vambraces, not a coincidence he thought. The pair stopped before him and Arvael made the sign of the Aquilla as he said, "Brother-Captain Toran, Brother Jediah."

The pair looked at him for a moment and then Toran said, "So, you are the one we've been hearing so much about. Tell me Novice, has Chaplain Wrethan informed you of your situation?"

Arvael swallowed and said, "Yes Captain, it has been explained to me. I am to be held under close guard until I can be returned to the Librarians for training."

"You are being presumptuous," remarked Toran, "First we must judge if you are worthy of such an honour."

"Brother-Captain?" asked Arvael uncertainly.

Toran declared, "I require a personal demonstration of your skills, I need to know if you are strong enough to survive the coming days. Select a weapon and take your starting position."

Arvael gulped at the thought of fighting a Captain one-on-one, but he told himself this was just another training exercise. All scouts routinely drilled with the training-instructors and Scout-sergeants to hone their skills. Arvael had already weighed all the available weapons in his mind and he went to pick out a pair of Tonfas, short sticks with protruding handles that would emphasize his speed and agility.

Arvael took up a position within a cage and said, "Ready when you are Captain."

However Toran shook his head and said, "It is not me whom you shall be duelling."

With that Brother Jediah stepped forwards, grabbing a blunted sword from a rack and stepping into the cage. Arvael's hearts fell; this had just gone from bad to worse. He had seen Jediah in action and knew just how deadly he was, and he had a vicious look his eye that set the novice's stomach sinking.

Toran raised his hand saying, "Commence on the count of..."

At that Jediah leapt forwards, stabbing forward with his sword in a disembowelling stroke. Arvael was caught off-guard and barely managed to twist away, taking a bruising knock across the abdomen. He had no time to recover though for Jediah was attacking again, unleashing a vicious series of blows. High and low, fast and strong, without pattern or repetition.

Arvael was forced into a desperate retreat, swinging his tonfas about, trying to deflect the attacks to each side. The incoming blows were swift and certain, holding nothing back and sparing no effort. Arvael had fought in practice duels before and knew this was different. The duel was ruthless and ferocious, Jediah was letting rip with everything he had. The novice fought back as best he could but he knew he was outmatched; if Jediah didn't let up he may well end up killing Arvael. Arvael was forced to duck as a vicious blow swung over his head, one that would have broken his neck had it connected. It was then that Arvael grasped that there was no maybe about it; Jediah really was trying to kill him. It would look like a tragic training accident, a lamentable deed and a black mark on his record, but at the end of the day Jediah would still have killed a Witch.

Jediah saw the realisation in the novice's eyes and he growled, "You should have taken Wrethan's bolt pistol, it would have been quicker and less painful to take the coward's way out."

Arvael's anger stirred and he swung his tonfa outwards shouting, "Never!"

Jediah easily blocked the attack with his sword held in one hand while the other swung in a backhand that caught the boy across the face. As Arvael stumbled back he growled, "Come on, witch, stop holding back. Make it a challenge at least, you're better than this, stronger than this. Show me your power; show me what you can do!"

Even as he said it Arvael knew that it was true, his power outmatched anything the Initiate could bring to bear. Without the Psy-dampener Arvael could draw upon unearthly power, might beyond the ken of mundane minds. It was tempting, so very tempting to rip free the accursed relic and let slip his potency. Yet Arvael refused to give in to temptation, he had sworn an oath and he would not break it.

The moment of distraction cost him dear, for Jediah's boot came up and smashed into his torso, sending the lad flying. Arvael smashed down upon his back and his tonfa clattered away as the wind was knocked out him. Quick as a flash Jediah was bestride him, sword pointed downwards, aimed right at his eye. Inside Arvael's mind a tiny voice cried, he's going to do it. Fight back now, call upon the power of the Warp. With that power Jediah could be crushed like a bug, flung away with a mere gesture. Jediah could feel what it was like to have every bone in his body broken by telekinetic might, to watch as the sword was ripped from his grasp and turned against him. It would be easy, all Arvael had to do was open his mind.

For a heart stopping moment Arvael almost did it, he could feel the power at his fingertips, held back only by his psy-dampener. He could have done it right then but one thing stopped him: his sworn oath. Arvael had vowed to refrain from using his power. If he broke his word, if he used the Warp to kill a Brother then he proved that he was no true Astartes and in that case his life wasn't worth living. Arvael looked up at Jediah and spat, "Do it."

Jediah's face filled with surprise but he raised his sword and then stabbed downwards, plunging the sword into the floor, one inch from Arvael's head.

A long second passed and then Jediah spat on the ground, before leaning back and taking the weight off as he stood up. Arvael was stunned by his reprieve and sat up, he rubbed his sore abdomen and said, "Was… was that a test?"

From outside the cage Captain Toran called, "Yes it was, a test of your will. A test to see if you thought that your life was in danger then would you break your oath and abuse your power."

Arvael gingerly stood up and said, "So… I passed?"

Toran sighed and said, "You misunderstand, the test is not over, it will never be over. For the rest of your life you must wrestle with the temptations of power, the craving to misuse your abilities. You will never be free of that snare."

Arvael absorbed his soberly, then said, "So now what?"

Toran stepped back as Jediah exited the cage with a dark grimace. Then the Captain said, "Now you get cleaned up, I want the two of you to join me in briefing the Imperial commanders in one hour."

"Captain?" asked Arvael in uncertainty, "What do you need me for?"

Toran explained, "There is far more to being a Librarian than Psychic power, you need to use your intellect and your reason too. Perhaps uniquely among your brothers you will be expected to ponder and contemplate where others would act, you will need to learn flexibility in your thinking. Chaplains provide meaning to our lives but as a Librarian, you will bring us perspective. So I want you to see how the Imperium operates at the highest levels."

Arvael absorbed this, trying to understand how his world had changed, expanding in ways that he had never considered before. It was an awesome responsibility and one he was not expecting. Yet there was one question he still needed to be answered first. He plucked up his courage and asked, "Captain… what would have occurred if I had succumbed to temptation?"

Toran moved his left hand in a most curious way and a spring-loaded obsidian knife shot out from his vambrace. There was not a trace of sympathy in Toran's face as he said pronounced, "I would have killed you where you stood."

Then without even a backwards glance the Captain turned and marched from the hall.


	18. Chapter 18

**Captum Ante Chapter 18**

Arvael was walking through the corridors of the Strike Cruiser, passing through compartment after compartment. As he walked various Chapter Serfs stood aside to allow him to pass, he may only be a Novice but the sight of him still declared him to be a Transhuman and respect for their masters was ingrained to the core. Of course it also be that Brother Jediah was marching right behind him, following him step for step.

Arvael couldn't help but notice that Jediah was still armed with a knife and that he never, ever allowed the novice to walk behind him, always keeping the lad in sight. Arvael wasn't blind to the implications, the older Brother wasn't here as an escort, he was here as a watchdog. Arvael slowed down fractionally in his pace but Jediah growled at him, "Keep walking."

Arvael decided not to push his luck and carried on, heading deeper into the ship. They were to meet up with Captain Toran, who was presenting his briefing to the various lords and sundry of the Imperium. Arvael had never dreamed of meeting such august personages, the great and noble leaders of trillions of people. He was eager to meet see such grand dignitaries, to witness the solemn and sober decision making processes that steered the course of the human race.

Soon they approached a great pair of doors, gloriously engraved and rendered with frescos of the Emperor victorious over the Arch-Betrayer. It was the entrance to the ship's main Chapel, normally a space reserved for ceremonial affairs but also the largest space capable of hosting such worthy visitors. The Storm Heralds did their guests great honour by allowing them to use such a revered space.

Arvael however was surprised to see the distinct form of Scout-Sergeant Nimodes ahead, lounging against the wall as if he had all day to pass. He was wearing a loose tunic like them and leaning back with his arms crossed. He straightened up as they approached and called, "There you are, I was beginning to think you got lost."

Jediah called, "What are you doing here?"  
Nimodes replied, "The Captain wanted me to join you for the briefing, we are the only ones who have been to the planet below. Our experience will be essential."

Arvael was glad to see the Sergeant, for he had been his training instructor for years now. The bonds formed during those years were strong indeed, there was no closer union than the trust between those who had fought and bled together. Arvael smiled and said, "Sergeant Nimodes, I am pleased to see you once more."

Nimodes' return smile was a little still and cold, but it was the warmest Arvael had seen since his return to the ship. In fact compared to most people the old Sergeant was practically gushing as he remarked, "Arvael, still alive I see. You passed their silly little test then."  
Arvael blinked and said, "You knew about that?"  
Nimodes nodded and replied, "Yes, and I was confident that you would not fail."

Arvael was glad to hear that, it was the first nice thing anyone had said to him since he learned he was a Psyker. In fact it was the first sign of trust anyone had expressed, something he was suspecting would be all too rare in the future. Arvael drew in a breath and inquired, "Sergeant how is the squad? Has anyone spoken to Therro, Fiett or Varma? "

Nimodes' face fell as he said, "I think its best you leave them be. Better to draw a line under that and move on. Your life is an open book now, time to start a new chapter."  
Arvael's hearts sank and he realised that deep down he had hoped the squad would come around. That they would learn to accept him as he was. Jediah must have seen his face for he said, "Leave the past where it belongs. To mope on what might have been is weak, the strong move forward."Arvael nodded sadly but Nimodes didn't let him dwell for he declared, "Come on, let's not waste time. Better get inside."

Together the three of them entered the Chapel, to find a scene of bedlam. Inside the sacred space the long pews were filled with men and women, all shouting and jeering at once. There were old men in starched uniforms, women in long dresses and adepts of various institutions, in a medley of robes and weighed down with icons and symbols of office. Every single one of them was talking at once, filling the room with noise. Arvael was stunned by what he saw, were these the mighty lords of the Imperium?

Nimodes led the three of them off to one side and Arvael said, "What the Feth is going on?"  
"Language!" scolded Nimodes as they crept up the side of the Chapel, "And to answer your question the lords gathered here are expressing their dissatisfaction with how long the Right Honourable Hasse Arabetha is taking to get to the point."

Arvael craned his neck and saw at the front of the Chapel an ancient and wizened old man, standing in a rich green robe sewn with the icons of the Administratum. He was droning on and on, seemingly oblivious to the noise around him as he talked and talked. Nimodes leaned in and explained, "He's taken almost an hour to explain that the Administratum is not happy with the changes to the invasion plan. He's trying to scupper any revisions we make."

Arvael didn't understand and said, "If he's already been talking for an hour, why are they letting him go on?"  
Jediah replied, "Because the Captain knows how Imperial politics works. The longer that quill-pusher drones on the weaker his position gets."

Arvael looked over to other side and saw Captain Toran standing patiently in a corner. He was wearing his glorious Artificer armour and had the Sword of Thiel strapped to one hip. It was a sight to inspire men to action but the Captain seemed disinclined to do anything. Arvael said, "Why would the Captain want that?"

Jediah snorted and explained, "If you're going to be a Librarian and stand alongside the Masters then you need to stop thinking of the Imperium as a united empire. The various Adeptus and Departmentos don't act as a functioning government but rather as a fractious assembly of warring tribes. Each Institution represented here is only in it for themselves and whatever prestige and power they can grab. None of them are pleased that the Storm Heralds ended up in command of this expedition."

Arvael was shocked and declared, "But that's not right, surely the High Lords wouldn't allow that."  
Nimodes chuckled and remarked, "Who do you think caused this mess? When Camollum first appeared from the Warp Storms the decision whether or not to invade got bogged down in various sub-committees and boards of Inquiry. It took Terra fifty years to actually issue the order and then they nominated a Guard General as Commander, who happened to have died twenty years ago. Which is how the Storm Heralds ended up in command in the first place."

Arvael was distracted as the quill-pusher finally finished and stepped aside. Captain Toran stepped forwards and clapped his hands loudly, drawing notice from the room. In the sudden silence the Captain declared, "Thank you for those words, does anyone second the motion?"

The room filled with jeers and boos; Toran let it play out for a few moments then declared, "It appears not. So then, we will proceed with the revised plans."  
From the crowd a man in dark grey power armour leapt up and snarled, "You overstep your authority, these plans were approved by Terra. It is not your place to change them!"  
"Inquisitor Zerban," whispered Nimodes, "An old enemy of the Chapter. He doesn't care about this world or anything else, other than making sure that we don't come out looking like heroes."

Arvael had heard of Inquisitors and had expected them to be fierce warrior zealots, but this man looked disappointingly normal. Even his power amour appeared clumsy and dull compared to his Chapter's own superior plate. In a fight Arvael was sure he could defeat this man and he said, "That's an Inquisitor? I expected more."

Jediah snorted and said, "He's a snake and the rest of the Inquisition hates him as much as we do. He's playing the lord here but his position is weak. He has nothing but a Rosette and some Witch hunters with him. We could gun him down and make up whatever story we want, this lot would probably cheer us if we did."

Arvael asked, "Why does he hate us?"  
Nimodes answered, "Gossip has it that he had a run in with Chief Apothecary Lessall a century back. The two have vehemently hated each other ever since."

Arvael watched as Toran announced, "As Commander is my right and duty to amend any plans to fit circumstance and I deem that the situation has changed. In matters of strategy you do not issue orders."  
The room went silent as everybody watched an Inquisitor being challenged by an Astartes officer. Zerban looked furious but Arvael realised that his position must be very weak indeed, for he sat down, his armour whining as he reclined.

Satisfied Toran continued, saying "Now onto the briefing. As you all know, the target is currently divided into two warring power blocs. The Missionaria Galactica has converted the Southern Concordance to the Emperor's cause, their Caliph will be established as Planetary Governor once the invasion is concluded. Unfortunately the Northern League has been far less receptive; they are willing to fight any invader and they have a considerable stockpile of Atonomic weapons."

That statement caused a stir and Zerban called out, "You overestimate their willingness to fight, what kind of fool would irradiate his own planet?"  
Toran didn't seem put out and said, "Let us consult someone who has actually set foot upon the planet."

"That's our cue," said Nimodes as he stepped forward alongside Jediah. The room bristled at the sight of the ferocious warrior, his lack of armour only emphasising his corded muscles and knot works of scars. Arvael saw people shrink back as Jediah declared, "I have walked the lands below and seen the people. Their minds are small and petty, filled with denial and blinkered in vision. They will not tolerate anything that threatens their world-view, 'Better dead than Red' they proclaim loudly. Make no mistake if they think they are going to lose they will push the button and kill themselves, poisoning their world as they do so."

"That is unacceptable!" cried a voice from the back, it was the quill-pusher Arabetha and he declared, "This world's resources have already been sequestered for transit to Administratum collection points. This planet is three hundred years in arrears of its Tithe payments and Terra demands the Emperor's due!"  
Toran nodded at that point and said, "Which is why our first strike will be to neutralise the threat of the Atonomic bombs. My Company will launch a surprise attack upon their centres of command and control, decapitating their leadership and ability to issue launch commands. By the time the Imperial Guard commences landing the main invasion force, the foe will be left reeling and unable to respond."

That caused stirs, not least from the various Guard officers who resented the Space Marines stealing the bulk of the glory. Yet Toran was unwavering and ignored their cries. Zerban however was a different matter saying, "And what of the Unsanctioned Psykers?"

Toran nodded, acceding the point and said, "They can be rounded up by the second wave, their ultimate fate rests with the Inquisition."  
Zerban seemed satisfied with that and sank back with a smug expression. Arvael felt Nimodes lean in and whispered, "The Captain's thrown him a scrap to keep him happy. Letting him walk out of here feeling like he's won some important concessions from us."

Arvael considered that, he had always assumed that a Captain issued orders and everybody complied. Keeping people happy had never factored into his understanding of life, this sniping and backtalk mystified him. He was starting to suspect that there was far more to being a Librarian than he had ever dreamed of and that there was so much he didn't know.

As the briefing got into the fine details of the looming invasion, and the plans for the post-conquest garrisoning of territories, Arvael settled back and pondered on what else a Librarian would be expected to know about.


	19. Chapter 19

**Captum Ante Chapter 19**

Arvael skipped along as he followed the trio of older Brothers. They were setting a fast pace and Arvael was forced to almost run to keep up. Jediah, Nimodes and Captain Toran all jogging along just short of a run. The briefing of the Imperial Lords had dragged out for hours as they argued over every detail and Arvael had struggled to stay awake at points.

Now they were late for the briefing of Third Company's Sergeants and they were moving at full pace. Arvael had no chance to ask questions until they reached the door to a small briefing room. Here they stopped and stood still as Captain Toran quickly repositioned his golden chains of rank and the weight of his relic blade. Arvael was puzzled why they had run here if they were going to waste time on appearances but Nimodes leaned over and explained, "A Captain must never look like a man running late for a meeting, he must always appear composed and confident for the sake of the troops."

Arvael blinked in surprise, yet another detail of command he hadn't anticipated and he asked, "But won't they know anyway?"

"Of course they will," laughed Nimodes, "But the Captain has to look like he cares about these things. If the men think he doesn't care, then they will stop caring and that will be the thin edge of the wedge. Discipline fails when standards start to slip."

Captain Toran had finished his preparations and then led them in at a dignified pace, finding the Sergeant's waiting. Arvael slipped inside and walked up to the front with Nimodes, nobody bothering to give him a glance. They found themselves ending up near Chaplain Wrethan who was standing by a Hololith, which was displaying a large continental landmass. Arvael quietly tucked himself away and watched proceedings as Toran opened the briefing. Over the next few minutes, details of enemy compositions and troop deployments were laid out but Arvael was only half-listening. His eyes wandered the room, picking out faces and recalling names.

The scouts had been familiarised with all the Sergeants, so that the chain of command was clear. There was Matheus, a former first Company Veteran and there was Mylos, famed marksman of the Chapter. Lorath the ferocious assault sergeant and Zeax of the Devastators. On and on, name after name, heroes all and Arvael was in awe to be in their presence.

The gathering was sombre and constrained, much more like Arvael's expectations of true leaders than those foolish lords had been. He was shaken from his reverie as Sergeant Matheus stated, "So we are to eliminate the Atonomic bombs first?"

Sergeant Mylos snorted in derision and said, "A fool's errand, look at the Hololith, there are hundreds of launch sites."

Arvael was surprised by the disrespect in his voice but Sergeant Zeax was already saying, "But look, command and control is centralised to a few locations only. Take them out with an orbital bombardment and the order to launch will never be issued."

Mylos said, "Too haphazard and imprecise, we need a clean kill not random bombing."

Arvael was puzzled and whispered, "What's going on, why is the Captain letting them question his plan? Why not just order the Sergeants to go wherever he wants."

Nimodes replied, "Strategy sessions are places where plans are tested and probed for weakness. Tactics are honed and redrafted, ideas debated and alternatives considered. The ultimate decision will be the Captain's but an officer who does not allow his subordinates to express ideas is ignoring the most important weapons in his arsenal. As the Primarch oft wrote, 'A Practical that is not based upon a sound Theoretical is inevitably flawed.'"

Toran interrupted the debate to say, "The four command facilities are buried in bunkers far below ground, so no, an orbital Bombardment will not suffice. We have to get in there and secure them personally. The first step will be to disable the enemy's auspex arrays."

Nimodes spoke up to say, "I still have scouts teams deployed planet-side, they remain undetected."

Toran nodded and highlighted several dots on the Hololith saying, "Indeed, these three sensor installations provide coverage over the capital city. Taking them out will blow a hole in their auspex net, allowing us to attack."

Sergeant Mylos scowled and remarked, "That will set off every alarm on the planet."

Toran agreed saying, "Yes, so timing will be everything. Mylos I want you to insert via Thunderhawk and eliminate the command bunker under their Chancellor's residence. Take two Tacticals and a Devastator squad, hit them from above and destroy the place."

Mylos raised an eyebrow and said, "Three squads, that's overkill."

Toran replied, "It's necessary, you must reach the bunker before they can react. If they have time to issue the launch command then we have failed."

Mylos rubbed his chin and said thoughtfully, "If we are hitting their ruler's own home then why not capture him too? We could compel him to order the complete surrender of his nation."

Toran shook his head and said, "No, we can't afford any distractions. Taking out that bunker is your only objective."

Mylos said, "But…"

Toran fixed him with a glare and said, "Your only goal and that is an order, understood?"

Mylos scowled disrespectfully but said, "Understood."

"Good," said Toran, "Now Sergeant Matheus I want you to do the same to their government body, this 'Kongress' is the home of their democracy."

"Democracy," asked Matheus with a frown, "By the Maelstrom, what is Democracy?"

Without thinking Arvael spoke up to say, "A form of representative government, where people elect officials to speak for them."

Everybody looked at him in confusion and Arvael felt a hot rush of embarrassment at having spoken before such worthy senior Brothers. Strangely it was Jediah who spared him further embarrassment by saying, "Government of the idiots, by the idiots and for the idiots."

"Oh," said Matheus dismissively, "One of those worlds."

Toran stated, "Regardless, I want you to flatten the place."

Matheus considered this for a moment then said, "You don't want it captured?"

Toran shook his head, "The Imperial Guard will take days to land their forces, there will be no back-up to relive you. This is not a Take and Hold mission. Get in, destroy their capacity to issue launch commands and then withdraw."

Matheus nodded and Toran continued, he expanded the Hololith and focussed upon a large installation several hundred miles from the capital city. The Captain drew in a breath and said "Now as to their military headquarters, I will lead the assault alongside Chaplain Wrethan. They expect an aerial assault, so there are layers of anti-air defence, flak guns and primitive rocket batteries. An airborne assault is out of the question, so we will use an armoured thrust. Thunderhawk Transporters will drop us beyond their auspex range then three squads will attack in Rhinos, backed up by Whirlwinds, Predators and Land Speeders. We have been honoured with the presence of the Land Raider 'Pride of Lujan' so my Command squad will be leading the assault."

Arvael saw everybody nodding at that and he knew that whole cities had fallen to less. The coming attack would be swift and certain, a glorious rendition of the Astartes' craft. The locals wouldn't have time to react before the Captain decapitated their military leadership and destroyed the command bunker underneath their feet.

"So that's the easy part, now for the hard part," Captain Toran declared, "Jediah?"

Brother Jediah stepped forwards and adjusted the Hololith to display an image of a large mountain. It was a singular peak, rising above gentle foothills and it stood out like a tower set upon the land. Jediah explained, "The information I absorbed from their leader uncovered a top-secret backup command bunker, buried under this mountain. It was designed to withstand an Atonomic barrage; it has doors six feet thick, layers of auspex arrays and is surrounded by rings of guards and heavy artillery. Communications are all via hardlines and they have full authority to issue a launch command should the capital city fall to a surprise attack."

Everybody absorbed that and Sergeant Matheus commented, "Tricky… nothing less than a full assault by the Company would suffice."

Mylos looked aggrieved as he said, "That would take too long, they would certainly get off a launch signal before we could break through. Even a concentrated barrage of Magma Bombs wouldn't guarantee a quick enough result."

Chaplain Wrethan spoke up to say, "What about a teleport assault?"

Everybody squirmed in response and Arvael noticed how uncomfortable they looked. He was not surprised by the reaction, he himself had never experienced Teleportation but he had heard dark things. Imperial science was archaic and ill-understood; the litany of things that could go wrong with teleportation was long, very, very long. People could arrive inside out or half-buried in a wall or even be lost in the Warp, cast adrift for Daemons to gnaw upon. The assembled Sergeants did not look afraid, they were Space Marines it was not possible for them to be afraid, but to Arvael's eyes they definitely looked apprehensive.

Thankfully Zeax said, "There's too much rock in the way for a direct attack. You would need a beacon on-site to successfully insert there."

Matheus declared, "A stealth infiltration then, somebody sneaks in the back door and plants a beacon."

Arvael saw Toran smile and realised that the Sergeants had worked their way to a conclusion the Captain had reached much earlier. Arvael considered this and grasped that by allowing them to work through the problem, rather than just issuing orders, the Captain had created an inclusive atmosphere. One where cooperation and teamwork were prized over mindless obedience, it was a Brotherhood beyond mere subservience. He could not help compare it to the bickering and infighting of the Imperial Lords and Arvael realised that there was a lot to leadership he had yet to learn.

Arvael tucked this thought away for later consideration as the Captain continued speaking, "Sergeant Nimodes will take a single team and infiltrate the mountain. It is well defended but only against mortals, there are several possibilities for a Space Marine to exploit. Sergeant Lorath, your assault squad will be the hammer blow. Be ready for the call."

The ferocious looking Assault Sergeant nodded grimly but it was Mylos who said, "Your last scout squad is a man down."

For a moment Arvael's heart leapt at the thought that he might be permitted to re-join his squad but his hopes were dashed when Jediah surprised everybody by saying, "I will go."

Even Captain Toran looked surprised and said, "You're volunteering?"

Jediah replied, "I have vital local knowledge, it could prove critical to the success of the mission."

From the back Sergeant Lorath called out, "He's just hoping there will be a chance to eat somebody else's brain!"

That brought grim chuckles from all present and Arvael fought to keep a laugh from escaping his lips. The Captain let it play out for a moment then called, "Very well, the assignments are set. I want you all to the study the plan closely, brief your squads and stand ready, we deploy in one hour. As soon as the local's auspex net falls we strike hard and fast. Now dismissed."

The formal meeting broke up and the Sergeants gathered round the Hololith, debating minor details and refining their individual assault plans. Meanwhile Arvael sank back, disappointed not to have been given an assignment. Nimodes caught his expression and said, "Why so glum?"

Arvael sighed, "I'm going to be left behind on the ship."

Behind him there was growl and he realised Chaplain Wrethan was eavesdropping. His skull masked helm fixed upon the youth and he growled, "No you're not, Jediah's busy so I'm not letting you out of my sight. You're coming with me."

Arvael swallowed nervously, wary at the thought of the fierce Chaplain overseeing him. Nimodes however laughed and said, "Don't soil your loincloths, this is a unique opportunity. You'll be in the heart of the battle, right in the thick of it. Besides do you have any idea how few novices have seen the inside of a hallowed Land Raider, let alone ridden one into battle."

Arvael face lit up at the prospect, Land Raiders were the most potent and hallowed relic-vehicles of the Chapter, each one blessed with its own character and treated as an honoured Brother. They were reserved for the very greatest of heroes, First Company veterans and officers. To set foot inside one was a singular honour.

Arvael broke out into a grin as for the first time he thought; maybe this new life of his wouldn't be so bad after all.


	20. Chapter 20

**Captum Ante Chapter 20**

Dawn was just a glimmer on the horizon, a faint line of brightness promising a glorious day. The land stirred under the promise of that dawn, birds singing their morning chorus and people groggily rolling out of beds. On farms across the rich lands cattle bumped up against feeding troughs and poultry crowed loudly. It was a perfect rural scene, beautiful in its simplicity, spoilt only by one thing: the massed roar of vehicle engines.

Across the wide, open plains an armoured spearhead was barrelling forwards, cutting across the ground in a straight line, ignoring all roads and signposts. They charged at full off-road speed, crushing and smashing anything that got in their way. Wooden gates, signposts and barbed wire fences were obliterated under their weight, contemptuously ignored as the war machines rumbled by. Meanwhile their potent weapons constantly scoured the land for threats but found none; their advance so far had been unopposed.

The armoured spearhead was a mighty punch to the guts of Nordlund, a hammer blow that would cripple their military leadership in one blow. At the heart of the formation rolled a trio of Rhinos, top hatches open so the Tactical and Assault Squads within could fire out. Flanking them were a pair of Predator Destructors, turrets rotating endlessly whilst a trio of Land Speeders floated alongside, primed and ready to dash into action. At the back of the formation was a single Whirlwind, its rocket artillery held ready to fire. Yet greatest of all was the magnificent sight of a Land Raider, the 'Pride of Lujan' most mighty and revered machine in the entire force.

Inside young Arvael sat in his Scout armour. He was clinging to his seat, trying not to be thrown off by the jostling and bouncing of the heavy vehicle. It was a claustrophobic and noisy environment, filled with the grinding of treads and the roar of the blessed engine. Despite all that Arvael was marvelling, the Land Raider was the product of ancient STC designs and its superior workmanship showed in every nut and bolt. He had trained in Rhinos but they could not be compared to this. The troop bay was spacious and efficiently designed; the driver was discretely tucked away to one side, along with the commander/gunner. There was a bank of pict-screens showing the exterior, opposite a rack of Bolters. There was also a small shrine and the arcane mechanism of the vehicle's Machine Spirit, which was festooned with purity seals.

Impressive as it was these details paled in comparison to the vehicles' fighting capacity. The machine's armour was ridiculously durable, layered with Adamantium and ceramite, providing as much protection as a Baneblade's but at one third the weight. The armaments were potent too; a pair of twin-godhammer pattern lascannons and a twin heavy bolter, nothing the locals possessed could hope to match that.

Arvael was awed to be allowed to travel in one, even if he was only a passenger. Sadly he would not be permitted to get out and fight, unlike the other occupants. He glanced at the assembled Space Marines, seeing Captain Toran standing proudly in his plate. He was surrounded by his Command Squad, minus Jediah. They were grizzled and hard-bitten warriors, wearing their scars proudly and eager for the fray. Standing with them was Chaplain Wrethan with his Crozius held ready and Apothecary Memnos, who was test firing his Narthecium, checking the action of its pneumatic bolt.

Memnos saw Arvael staring and frowned as he said, "Pick up your jaw lad, your mouth is hanging so wide that it's scraping on the floor."

Arvael realised that he was staring and hurriedly glanced away, looking over to the Captain who was saying, "Land Speeders report, any indications we've been detected?"

After a moment he turned to Chaplain Wrethan and said, "All clear so far."

Wrethan chewed his jaw and said, "That won't last long, they have to know that their auspex net has been compromised. Only a fool wouldn't suspect an attack."

"We had better be quick then," declared the Captain, "We need to hit them hard, send them reeling and get into the heart of the base. Reaching that underground bunker is everything; we have to eliminate it before they can issue a launch signal."

He was interrupted as the tank commander, Brother Tyreo, called out, "Captain, watch posts ahead."

Instantly Toran barked, "Halt here. Land Speeders annihilate those outposts. Fast and hard Brothers, don't let them get the word out!"

As the Land Raider ground to a halt Arvael peered at the pict-screens and saw the trio of skimmers dart away, moving at the speed of an aircraft but only a few feet off the ground. They would hit the watch posts before they even knew they were under attack and clear the way for the attack to commence. Meanwhile Toran was ordering, "All squads make ready, Whirlwind prepare suppression barrage, assault squad dismount!"

Arvael looked at the pict-screens and saw the various units preparing, gathering themselves to leap into action. He saw the Assault squad clambering out of their Rhino, their jump packs making the action awkward and slow. That was why they always attacked on foot, relying upon their jump packs instead of mechanical assistance. As they prepared Toran turned to the Chaplain and said, "Father Wrethan, would you be so good as to address the Company."

Wrethan opened his vox link to all the squads and began, "Brothers, today we are once more called to war. The Divine Emperor has decreed that this world shall re-join His glorious Imperium and we shall be the unstoppable instruments of His will. See the foe before you, they may look like weak and cowering mortals but do not let that false veneer stay your wrath. These curs deny the Emperor's sovereignty; they deny the Imperium's Manifest Destiny to rule the galaxy. Hate them; hate them as you would the foulest Xeno! Now go forward to victory Storm Heralds: for Him on Terra!"

Arvael's hearts soared to hear the declaration and his pride swelled to be part of so noble a Brotherhood. More than ever he yearned to be clad in Ceramite armour, to charge into battle as a full Initiate, side by side with a squad of valiant heroes. But then he sighed, that was no longer his fate. He was destined to walk a different path, that of the Librarian. Such brotherhood would never be his.

Suddenly Toran put his hand to his vox bead and declared, "That's it, watch post destroyed. All units on my order: ATTACK!"

The Pride of Lujan roared into life and Arvael was flung sideways as the Land Raider accelerated hard. The floor shook beneath them but the Space Marines seemed unperturbed as they smoothly donned their helms. Arvael looked at the Pict-screens and saw long contrails descending, the first salvo from the Whirlwind which had stayed behind. The rockets flashed downwards and Apothecary Memnos growled, "Come on curs, get out of your beds and see the dawn turn red."

There was a flash of light and then a series of fireballs erupted over the base, blowing apart flimsy buildings and scattering shrapnel everywhere. The foe was caught completely off-guard and Arvael saw tiny images of bodies sent flying and flames roaring everywhere. Again the rockets descended in a second salvo, sowing anarchy and bedlam everywhere, then the Tanks hit the perimeter. With a thunderous roar the Pride of Lujan chewed through the outer barbed wire fence, flattening it with ease. The lascannons discharged with their distinctive snap-roar and Arvael saw a pair of gun nests disintegrate before their wrath. There was no time to celebrate though for Brother Tyreo called, "Tank obstacles ahead!"

Toran roared, "Break through them!"

Everybody gripped onto a handhold and Memnos muttered to Arvael, "Brace yourself lad."

The concrete obstacles loomed ahead in the pict-screen, a line of bulwarks right in the Space Marine's path. They were huge blocks of rock and steel, designed to keep armoured vehicles at bay. They were the best this world could produce and would have halted a herd of grox. But set against a Land Raider they achieved absolutely nothing.

Arvael felt his whole world lift up and slam back down as the mighty machine smashed into the obstacles, its weight and power built to a standard that the poor local builders could not have dreamt of. The Pride of Lujan crushed the obstacles under its treads and carried on, contemptuously breaking them into dust under its treads. Rock and steel shards spilled over the flanks of the tank, bouncing off its Adamantium hide but doing nothing more than scratching the paintwork.

Arvael glanced at the pict-screens and saw Predators and Rhinos following in Pride of Lujan's wake, pouring through the gap it had created with autocannons and heavy bolters blazing. Everywhere there was fire and destruction, the locals running to and fro in bewildered confusion. Arvael saw a flash pass over the screens as a Land Speeder dashed past, a torrent of shells screaming from its nose-mounted assault cannon. Then a flurry of dark shapes crashing down as the Assault squad fell from the skies, chainswords carving a bloody path through the foe.

Wrethan yelled, "We're in, central building ahead."

Toran barked into the vox, "Prepare to dismount, Assault and first Tactical squad with me, we must reach that bunker fast. Wrethan, take the second tactical squad and form a rear-guard with the vehicles, keep the foe from massing behind us."

Everyone braced and Arvael went to stand up but Wrethan turned his head and growled, "Where the hell do you think you're going?"

Arvael's hearts fell and he protested feebly, "But…"

Wrethan barked angrily, "You will stay in this Land Raider, is that understood?"

"Yes, Chaplain" answered Arvael forlornly.

Wrethan turned back as the Pride of Lujan ground to a halt and the assault ramp slammed down. Captain Toran led the charge with a furious roar leaving Arvael behind as the ramp whirred shut. The novice was left in the echoing interior of the Land Raider with nothing to do but watch the pict-screens. It was galling to him to be left behind, he wanted to be out there fighting and taking action. He wanted to measure himself against the greatest heroes and test himself to the limit. To be left behind was more than humiliating, it was an offence to everything an Astartes stood for.

At the back of Arvael's mind a tiny voice whispered: he should be out there. He should be fighting as proper Storm Herald. Without that Psy-dampener he could unleash power like these mortals had never seen. He could stride in the midst of battle, protecting his Brothers with Kine shields, throwing foes away with a mere gesture and upturning enemy tanks with a mere thought. Enemies would be crushed before him and he would save the day single-handed. If he just took off that Psy-dampener he could become more than powerful, he could become glorious, a Lord of War unleashed.

Arvael snapped his mind back to reality with a surge of self-recrimination, these thoughts were beneath him. He had sworn an oath and he would not break it. Arvael realised that he was really starting to dislike this part of his mind, the part that wanted him to break his word. He resolved to confess these thoughts later on, doubtless he would be assigned penance and self-flagellation for his impurity but perhaps that would put a stop to the notions.

Arvael was shaken out of his self-reproach as the Land Raider shook like a bell and Brother Tyreo swore, "Warp hells!"

"What is it?" yelled Arvael.

Tyreo called back, "We're being flanked on all sides, the locals have rallied and they have rocket-propelled grenades. Armour is holding but they're getting too close!"

"Where's the rear-guard?" called Arvael.

"Busy!" cried Tyreo, "We can't cover all the angles with the forward Heavy Bolters. Quickly, I need you up top to use the Storm Bolter!"

"I can't," shouted Arvael, "I'm not allowed to leave the Land Raider."

Tyreo actually looked over at him incredulously and said as if the novice were an idiot, "It's a pintle-mounted Storm Bolter. You can fire it from the hatch without ever leaving the vehicle."

Arvael's jaw dropped for a second and then he was moving, ripping off his restraints and jumping onto the firing step. As he opened the hatch he set his face in determination, this was his chance to prove that he was yet a Storm Herald.


	21. Chapter 21

**Captum Ante Chapter 21**

Inside the bucking Land Raider Arvael fought with the top hatch, struggling to release the clasps. It felt like he was fumbling for long minutes but in truth it could not have been more than a few seconds until the locks gave way and the hatch opened up above him. Hastily Arvael shoved his head up and merged into a smoking vision of hell.

Everywhere flames were burning, spreading rapidly across the ruined base. Shattered masonry and broken bodies were strewn across the ground and thick clouds of smoke arose, cutting vision down to a few feet. The noise was incredible, filled with shouting and screaming men, the hammering of weapons and the roars of engines, making the ears hurt in the suffocating crescendo. Arvael saw the bulky forms of Predator tanks and Rhinos grinding to and fro in the smoke, keeping constantly in motion as they tore through the base. Around their flanks Ceramite clad giants prowled, keeping the enemy at bay with short bursts of bolter fire. There was a shriek in the sky and an explosion declared the arrival of another missile from the Whirlwind, its artillery expertly coordinated with the attacking force so that it did not hit a single Brother.

Arvael was stunned by the violence and carnage on display, but only superficially. This was what he had been gene-forged and trained for, what he had spent a lifetime yearning to be a part of. Where a mortal man would have been shocked and traumatised by the butchery on display, his Hypno-indoctrination ensured that his soul exulted at being present and he rejoiced to at last be joining the heart of battle. A sharp crack and a round whistling past his face reminded him why he was here and Arvael looked around for the threat. Approaching the Land Raider from three sides were large knots of men, local soldiers in blue uniforms. They bore short stubby weapons in their hands, with front-loaded armour piercing explosive heads, some form of rocket-propelled grenades. They were battered and bruised but they remained professionals, despite the sudden unexpected carnage they had rallied together and managed to surround the venerable machine.

Arvael wondered for an instant where the tank's infantry support was, then he saw a ceramite-clad body upon the ground, having been torn in half by an explosion. It was a sobering sight, Astartes were mighty and durable but they were not invulnerable. Any weapon that could threaten a tank could certainly overcome power armour. While Arvael's mind had been processing this his hands had been in action. Moving purely on muscle memory, instilled in countless hours of training, he had grasped the Storm Bolter and released the safety catch. He took a millisecond to choose his targets, the Pride of Lujan's heavy bolters were keeping one knot of locals suppressed which left him with a choice: left or right. There was nothing to indicate which one was better so he chose right.

Arvael grasped the handles of the Storm Bolter and swung right then he gritted his teeth and depressed the triggers. Instantly there was a howl of thunder and Arvael felt like his arms were being shaken out of their sockets by a jackhammer as the weapon leapt in his grip. Arvael had been trained with these weapons but it had never been emphasised, scouts were not expected to wield such potent weapons in battle. Arvael swore loudly as he saw his first burst soar over the foes' heads, making them flinch but doing no damage. He gritted his teeth and lowered his aim, gripping harder and bracing his boots against the side of the firing step, then he clenched his hands on the triggers. The assault weapon barked furiously and a torrent of bolt shells erupted from its twin barrels, this time hitting the foes dead on.

Arvael had always wondered why such weapons were not standard issue, now he understood all too well. The Storm Bolter jerked and bucked in his grip, only the pintle attachment keeping it from flying free as the two barrels heaved with recoil. It was pointless trying to precisely aim such a weapon, perhaps someone in Terminator plate would have the strength to do so but all Arvael had were his arms. The only thing he could do was point the weapon in the general direction of the enemy and spray it back and forth, hoping to hit something.

Arvael kept the triggers depressed for long seconds, reaping foes down until the gun ran dry. His arms felt numb and he was forced to blink to see the outcome but then he saw the results of his actions and he was amazed. Before him was a scene of utter destruction, bodies strewn about like they were in a slaughterhouse. The torrent of mass reactive rounds had caught the enemy full on and ripped them apart, detonating bolts blowing flesh apart and bursting bodies like balloons filled with water.

Arvael was about to cheer but then the Pride of Lujan rocked as a detonation hit it in the side and he suddenly remembered the second group of soldiers approaching from the left. While he had been distracted they had closed to point-blank range and were letting loose with waves of grenades against the flank and rear. The Adamantium armour had withheld the worst of the blasts, but it would not last forever and they were close enough now to target the track drives. Arvael's Storm Bolter was empty so he hurriedly dropped down and grabbed a spare box-like magazine from a rack. He stood up again and hastily ripped out the empty clip, seeing the foe circling around behind the Pride of Lujan. Perhaps they had assumed that the machine's weak points would be on the rear armour, but this was a Land Raider, there were no weak points.

The locals saw Arvael hurriedly fitting the clip into the pintle-mounted weapon and a few stubber rounds arose, trying to cut him down. Fortunately in their haste the shots all went wide and the youth finished his task with a satisfying clunk as the clip slid home. He grabbed the handles and before the locals could react he swung the gun around and let fly. A second torrent of shells spat forth, mowing down men in droves. Arvael was more conservative this time, letting loose with short bursts that slew man after man and he swiftly tore the foe apart. He let up, confident that he had finished the enemies off but he was startled when a man suddenly rose up next to him, knife in hand.

The soldier had been sheltering beneath the shadow of the tank, where Arvael could not target him. Then he had leapt, grabbing the roof and hauling himself up, intending to surprise the novice. Arvael was indeed surprised, however he still boasted Transhuman reflexes. Before his conscious mind could even process the sight, his hand had fallen to his hip. He drew his combat blade and on pure reflex threw it overhanded to hit the soldier square in the forehead. The man slumped with a surprised look on his face and then his body rolled off the tank, falling away to be lost in its wake as it drove on.

The Pride of Lujan rumbled on, looking for more enemies in the smoke. It did not have to look for long. From ahead there were a series of thunderous bangs and the Land Raider reacted by accelerating hard, throwing Arvael backwards. From the smoke ahead emerged the distinct shape of a Predator, its side armour ripped and torn around a shattered heavy bolter sponson.

Its turret rotated and fired an autocannon round off into the smoke. In return a trio of shots screamed back, slamming into the glacis plate and rocking the machine backwards. Arvael peered outwards and tensed as he saw a trio of unfamiliar machines emerging, rolling forwards on caterpillar tracks. They were squat and rotund machines, with small round turrets, protruding barrels and sloping armour. Local tanks, hunting for foes.

Pride of Lujan didn't hesitate and Arvael had to shield his eyes as four searing blasts of Lascannon fire shot out. They caught one tank right under the turret and bored through its weak armour, making it erupt in a dirty fireball as the ordnance inside brewed up. To their credit the remaining tanks did not panic, they broke off their attack on the Predator and spun their turrets towards the Pride of Lujan. As the barrels came to bear Arvael hastily ducked back under the cover of the Land Raider's armour, just moments before they fired.

The whole machine rocked back on its tracks as a pair of armour piercing shells hit the Pride of Lujan dead on, slamming hard into its assault ramp. Arvael's head snapped back and slammed into the edge of the turret hatch, making him see stars. It took a second for his head to stop spinning but he realised to his relief that the Adamantium armour had proved true and the shells had failed to do more than land glancing hits. He stuck his head back outside, just in time to see Pride of Lujan fire again, hitting both native tanks simultaneously. One machine was transfixed by a pair of twin Lascannon blasts, grinding to a slow halt as it spewed out black smoke. The other was penetrated right through to the magazine and detonated in a brilliant explosion that blew the turret right off. It flew up into the air and crashed back down upside down, making a strange ornament sticking out the ground.

Arvael let out a whoop of triumph to see the local's machines bested and Pride of Lujan rolled on. As they passed the Predator he saw that its turret was still tracking around, the machine was damaged but the crew inside yet lived. Arvael breathed a sigh of relief and returned his attention to the wider battle. Over the next few minutes the Pride of Lujan continued its rampage, annihilating all in its path. Arvael let off a few bursts here and there but it was largely superfluous, the tank's weapons proving more than a match for anything else it encountered.

As the battle wound down men began to appear in ones and two, holding empty hands over their heads. Regretfully the mission parameters did allow not allow for the taking of prisoners. Besides the Adeptus Astartes were elite rapid strike units not garrisoning forces, they were not in the habit of taking prisoners and they never showed any mercy towards enemies, human or otherwise. Once the message got out the local's courage snapped and many men turned to run, fleeing the burning base in all directions. The fighting trickled away and finally stopped, leaving only flames and death in its wake as the smoke slowly cleared.

Arvael looked about and saw the Space Marines emerging from the ruins, proud and mighty in their plate. Among them was Chaplain Wrethan who was praising the Initiates loudly for their valour. He paused when he saw Arvael, whose head and shoulders were poking out of the hatch of the Pride of Lujan. The Chaplain barked, "What are you doing, I told you to stay in that Land Raider!"

Arvael grinned triumphantly and slapped his hand upon the roof as he called back, "But Father Wrethan, I am in the Land Raider."

"Hah, he's got you there!" cried the voice of Apothecary Memnos, who was helping a wounded Brother back onto his rapidly healing legs, "Hasn't even started his training and already he's thinking like a Librarian."

Wrethan snorted in aggravation and announced, "The bunker has fallen and the base is ours. What are the casualties?"

Memnos replied, "Five walking wounded, one in a healing coma and one fatality, Brother Ariba."

"His name shall be entered in the Scrolls of Honour," declared Wrethan, "Now pack up and move out before the enemy counterattacks. Captain Toran wants us to fall back and rendezvous with the other strike groups."

As the Squads reassembled Arvael looked out over the battlefield. The attack had been a complete success and yet he knew it was only part of the wider war. He glanced to the horizon and in the dawn light he could just make out the distant smudge of a lone mountain. He could not help but wonder how Nimodes and Jediah were faring and if their mission would prove nearly as successful.


	22. Chapter 22

**Captum Ante Chapter 22**

The mountain soared into the sky above, its craggy slopes bulging in the darkness and promising treacherous falls to any who traversed its heights. Old scars hinted at a long history of rockslides and earthquakes, reshaping the mountain on a timescale that mere men could not hope to grasp. Only the topmost peaks were visible, glowing with the first glimmers of the dawn to come. The thin woods that covered its slopes were thick with the scent of mould and sap, the forest soaking in the pre-dawn dew while root systems guzzled up the ambient moisture.

The mountain itself was a remnant of an earlier epoch, the last of a lost forgotten range. All its siblings had been worn down to rugged hills by millions of years of exposure and tectonic movement. The mountain itself was half its previous size and in another million years would just be one more hill, but in the meantime it remained a giant among dwarfs.

All around the lower slopes men bustled to and fro, driving vehicles into and out of great tunnels bored into the rockface. There were rings of razorwire fences, minefields and patrolling guards along with deadfall traps. There were rumbling Panzers and cunningly concealed gun posts looking out over the winding road that led down to the farm belt. Higher up the slopes there were air vents, but these were equally well guarded. Covered in metal meshes that had been rigged with motion sensors and alarms to warn of any intruder. The mountain was also crested by a copse of metal antennas and dishes, sending out electromagnetic waves to scour the skies.

The defence was as strong and comprehensive as the locals could hope to make it. For this was their nation's last line of defence, a secret base buried deep to hold against the destruction of their entire world. Every effort had been made to protect this fastness and there was not a man alive who could hope to penetrate it. Yet today that security would be tested by beings who were more than mere men.

In the dark a Transhuman being was jogging up the hillside, unperturbed by the dim gloom all around. He was clad in scout armour and gripping a Fractal edged short-sword in one hand. It was Brother Jediah and he was advancing rapidly, alert for threats. Jediah felt odd to be back in Scout armour, he had grown accustomed to the power and protection afforded by his trustworthy Mark VII plate. Still the mission called for stealth over raw power and so he had been equipped the lighter armour before inserting planet-side with the rest of the squad.

Jediah glanced behind him seeing a knot of Scout-novices following in his wake. Therro, Fiett and Varma, all gripping their weapons tightly and moving in short dashes, covering each other's backs. They moved silently and with disciplined professionalism, a perfect display of Codex formations. Only another Transhuman would have noted the way their eyes avoided each other's, signs of discord and recriminations over the fate of their missing squadmate. Clearly they had not all been pleased with his new assignment, some lamenting his removal from the squad, other trying to forget that the Psyker even existed.

Jediah's lip curled in contempt, what was done was done. The fate of Arvael was out of their hands, the lad was forever removed from their lives. To waste time on regret or resentment was a waste of time and energy, a weakness of spirit that deserved only his scorn. If these novices wished to ascend then they would have to learn the strength to take what the Emperor set before them and move on with their lives.

Jediah's eye moved on and found the last member of their party, Scout-Sergeant Nimodes. He was bringing up the rear and he had a large cylinder strapped to his back. It was the essential Teleport beacon, the whole point of this mission. Jediah knew that Nimodes also fretted about the fate of the missing scout, he was far too attached to the youths he trained. Yet the veteran had the fortitude and experience to carry on as if all was well, a strength of character that Jediah could respect.

The Scout party had descended half-way from orbit in a Stormraven, then been forced to drop the rest of the way by Grav-chute. Their body's being too small to trigger the local's auspex network. Once they were planetside it had been a simple matter to slip past the perimeter guards, their mortal eyes proving to be barely any use in the dark of night. Then they had carefully ascended, avoiding gun posts and alarmed trip wires, patrols and deadfalls with ease. Several cunningly concealed minefields had proved more problematic however, their presence obvious from the way the patrol's tracks veered suddenly away. The scouts had been forced to detour around them, costing precious time. But now they had at last reached their goal.

Ahead of Jediah there was the sound of rushing water and he carefully peered through the darkness to see a waterfall cascading down a vertical face to a pool at the bottom, before gurgling away in a wide stream. The water was coming out of a large outflow pipe situated some fifty feet above, sitting out in the open.

Jediah's stolen memories drifted up, bringing him the knowledge that the mountain base drew its water from an underground aquifer. Completely sealed off from outside interference, but it left the base via this pipe. It was an obvious way into the mountain which was why it was situated fifty feet up and the rock face was lined with razor shards and curved protuberances to prevent anyone scaling it. Even higher above was a gun post, situated right at the top of the rockface to stop anyone rappelling down. The locals clearly thought that this was sufficient to stop enemies and against any mortal foe they would have been right. Yet to a Space Marine there was an obvious flaw in their thinking.

Silently Jediah led the party forward, using sign language to tell them to prepare for the ascent. Noiselessly they complied, stowing weapons and drawing grappling claws which they fitted to their wrists. Jediah checked their readiness then gave Nimodes a begrudging nod, to indicate that the novices were at least competent.

Without a sound Jediah began a breathing exercise, one that stimulated his implanted Multi-lung into wakefulness. Responding to the rhythm the implant expanded, taking over his respiratory functions and closing off his trachea to isolate his normal lungs. The artificial organ was designed to boost and protect an Astartes' respiratory functions, but its hyper-efficient toxin dispersal effect also meant that it could draw oxygen from otherwise lethal environments, such as underwater.

Confidently Jediah stepped forwards into the waterfall itself, feeling the weight of the water hammer down on his head as he did so. The pressure was intense and visibility was reduced to an inch but he had warred across nightmarish hell-worlds and this was barely a light breeze to him. Jediah found the wet rock face before him and sank his grappling claws into the stone, then his muscles tensed and he hauled himself upwards. The water resisted him, hammering down on his head in an attempt to throw him off the wall but he ignored such mediocre difficulties and pulled himself up, hand over hand. The power contained within his enhanced muscles rendered the natural barrier null and void and where a mortal would have been swept away, Jediah was untroubled.

The noise was remarkable and visibility was practically non-existent so Jediah's world shrank around him, closing into a tiny private bubble. As he mechanically rose he had a moment to think and he was not happy. The entrance to the mountain should prove no challenge but the real obstacle set before them was time. They had lost considerable time avoiding the minefields below and as a result were behind schedule.

The attacks on the other bunkers would begin at dawn's first light and that time was almost upon them. The Scouts were supposed to be in position before that occurred but they were still a long way from the centre of the base. It would do them no good to activate the beacon on the periphery of the base and have to fight their way in, they had to cripple this place before the locals had a chance to send a launch signal.

Jediah snarled as he climbed, knowing that they were out of options, all they could do was hurry. Furiously he pulled himself up, hammering his hands into the rock, one after the other as he ascended. The climb seemed to take forever but just as Jediah was convinced that they were too late his hand broke free of the rushing water and he found himself rising into the mouth of the pipe. The water tried to push him off but he refused to yield and hauled himself into the pipe, finding a dark tunnel stretching out before him. He crawled forward and waited as the others arose, Therro, Fiett, Nimodes and last of all Varma, who was wheezing with exertion. Jediah snorted in contempt for such weakness and led them on without a word, drawing his weapons.

Silently the squad followed, making their way into the heart of the mountain. They splashed along in the knee height water, alert and ready for traps. Hastily they progressed, hearing nothing but water all around but knowing that they were now in the heart of their enemy's lair. Jediah's confidence was soaring and he was just about to congratulate himself on their flawless entry when the noise of a footfall echoed down the tunnel.

Instantly he held up a fist and the whole squad froze, peering ahead for a sign. From the distance a faint flicker sparked and then became a steady light, Illuminating a small catwalk. It stood a foot clear of the water and upon it were a pair of guards in blue uniforms. Jediah tensed, ready for combat but there was no incoming volley of shots. Instead he heard a bark of laughter as one guard made a comment and the other responded. Then Jediah realised that this was just a routine patrol and that the scouts had not been detected.

Varma's bolter came up but was halted by Nimodes' fist, firmly pushing it back downwards. Silently he nodded to Jediah, who understood that this had to be dealt with quietly. Like a snake Jediah sank into the water, progressing along with his head submerged. Effortlessly he sneaked up on the pair of guard, just one more shadow in the dark and he surfaced at the edge of the catwalk, right under their boots.

The guards didn't seem to notice a thing and Jediah grinned as he raised his blade in preparation to strike. That grin faded however when he heard the distinct sound of a zip being lowered and man's voice sigh as a trickling sound splashed right before him. Jediah's nose wrinkled as a familiar scent arose and he realised in dsigust that the guard was taking a piss, one inch from his face. Jediah had fought in space and burning battlefields, he had killed mighty warriors and helpless weaklings without remorse. He had done all this for the sake of an Emperor who didn't even know his name, but this was absolutely mortifying, it was utterly humiliating. Jediah was planning on killing the guards anyway but now they just really had to die.

Jediah bunched his muscles and then in one bound he leapt up from the tunnel, emerging from the water like a leviathan from the depths. The first guard died with his zip undone as Jediah's blade decapitated him before he could blink. The other guard spun about in surprise, his face forming a comical 'O' of horror but Jediah didn't give him a chance to scream. the Astartes' other fist leapt forwards and hit the man straight on, caving in the face and crushing the skull behind.

Jediah shook bits of bone off his hand and he heard the others approaching, passing him by one by one. Nimodes gave him a wink as he passed, letting him know that the veteran had seen everything. Jediah sighed, he was never going to live this down.

With a shake of his head he followed the Scouts into the dark; the base was wide open and vulnerable. It was time to finish this once and for all.


	23. Chapter 23

**Captum Ante Chapter 23**

Deep beneath the mountain the Scouts advanced, weapons held tight and ready to fight at a moment's notice. They had penetrated the outer defences and had gained access to the interior, now they just had to reach their objective.

At their head Jediah crept along with his bolt pistol and Fractal-edged short sword in hand. All around him the walls were made of bare rock, carved from the heart of the mountain. The corridors were braced with circular rings of bracketing metal, which supported various pipes and conduits for electrical cables. The air had that stifling tang that could only come from too many mouths breathing in close proximity, layered with the unmistakeable scents of air scrubbers and multiple filters.

In many ways it was eerily familiar to Jediah, reminding him of an Imperial starship's interior. The only thing missing were shrines and purity seals to appease the Machine Spirits, along with gargoyles to ward off Gremlin spirits and Warp Daemons. Jediah didn't know whether to admire this culture's straightforward approach to engineering or sneer at their flagrant disrespect for the eldritch mysteries of the mechanical.

Behind Jediah the rest of the scouts followed on, tense and on a hair's edge. At the rear was Sergeant Nimodes, still bearing the bulk of the Teleport Beacon across his back. The mission required them to deliver that beacon as deep into the base as they could, the waiting Assault squad were counting on them to succeed, no matter what. So Jediah prowled forwards as quietly as he could, but knowing that this base was packed with troops. They could not avoid a fight forever.

All too soon Jediah heard the crump of boots on stone, the sign of approaching troops. He alerted the squad with swift gestures in sign language and the Storm Heralds spread out, pressing themselves against the walls. Sure enough a dozen men soon appeared ahead; they were marching in lockstep and headed right this way. There was no avoiding this fight. Jediah cursed silently but could do nothing but wait as they closed, hoping that they would get in knife range before spotting the intruders. Sadly it was not to be, one man suddenly pointed and shouted a warning and all the others responded, grabbing at their weapons. The Space Marines didn't need orders, they instinctively levelled their own guns and let fly.

Bolt rounds hurtled down the corridor and blasted a handful of men off their feet but the rest were undaunted and charged into combat with a wild yell. Jediah met them with the edge of his blade, gutting the first man with a single blow then slashing the throat of the next. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Fiett dodging around men, his blade hacking and slashing with consummate proficiency. Varma was breaking arms and cracking heads with the stock of his bolter, showing far more skill in battle than Jediah had ever thought he had possessed. Elsewhere Nimodes was battering opponents down with brutal force, while Therro was blasting men down two at a time with a shotgun. He was laughing as he blazed away, roaring his exuberance with commendable zeal.

Jediah redoubled his efforts and cut a path through the foes, leaving none alive in his fury. He was a whirlwind of destruction and no mere mortal could stand against him. In moments they had decimated the whole party of enemies, leaving none alive or so they thought. Suddenly there was a blazing siren screech and Jediah's head spun around to see one wounded man leaning against a wall. The mortal's hand was firmly pressed on a big red alarm button, triggering an alert none could miss. Therro's shotgun boomed and the local fell in a bloody heap but it was too late, the word was out, the Scouts had been detected.

Nimodes roared, "Warp Hells, they know we're here. We have to move it, come on Storm Heralds, double time. Now!"

The squad broke into a flat sprint, making their way deeper into the base as fast as they could. All around them the alarms blared loudly and there were the sounds of many boots running from all directions. Jediah knew that even now the local soldiers would be hurrying to their posts, preparing barricades and traps for the intruders. The chances of reaching their objective were dropping by the second, but they could not give up now. They had a mission to complete and nothing would stop them.

Suddenly a second party of men appeared, hurrying around a corner in two ranks. They froze as they saw the Space Marines approaching at a flat run but only for a heartbeat. With disciplined speed they raised long-barrelled weapons and took aim yet the Astartes were faster. Before the men could fire they were hit by an incoming barrage of bolt rounds and shotgun pellets, blasting bodies apart and knocking the front rank down in bleeding heaps. One second there was a line of well-trained men and the next there was a gory mass of broken flesh.

The sight of it was too much for the men in the second rank and they fell back, retreating before the vengeful Space Marines. Jediah sent another volley of bolt rounds at their backs, which cut down a few of them in grizzly detonations. Then the rest of them fled back around the corner, escaping from the Astartes' sight. Therro saw them retreat and ran after them enthusiastically, yelling, "We've got them on the run!"

Nimodes' eyes widened and he cried, "Therro no! Don't follow them…"

But Therro wasn't listening and he yelled back, "This time the glory is all mine!"

His jubilation was cut short as he stepped around the corner and his jaw immediately dropped in horror. There was a thunderous retort and then the air filled with fat rounds, a torrent of bullets slamming down the length of the corridor at a rate that could only be produced by a Heavy stubber. The onslaught caught Therro full on before he could react and it threw him backwards, hurling him away with brutal force. His Scout armour deflected a few rounds but the rest found the gaps in the plate and ripped into his flesh. Skin and muscles tore under the onslaught while bones broke and vital organs were rent apart by the furious barrage. Therro had time for one scream and then a round hit him in the face, shattering his skull and ending his life in a spray of blood and brains.

It was a shocking and stunning end to his young life and the novices were dumbfounded by the sight, unable to grasp the sudden loss of so vital a companion. Jediah and Nimodes however were already in motion, their hypno-indoctrination letting them compartmentalise the trauma and remain functional. They stepped up to the corner drawing Frag grenades and then they paused to listen. Centuries of experience letting them judge the calibre, range and position of the Heavy Stubber by sound alone.

From the sound of the oncoming bullets Jediah ascertained the weapon to be just beyond the range a mortal could throw a grenade, a wise precaution but that did not account for the enhanced muscles of a Space Marine. He prepared to throw, then he paused. Any professional would surely take precautions, Jediah thought, there must be some form of barricade. Mentally his raised his targeting a few degrees, then the hail of bullets slacked off a fraction. As one Nimodes and Jediah stepped out, hurling their grenades with snap throws. Jediah had an instant to see that the heavy weapon was indeed behind a metal shield but that their grenades would soar right over it. They didn't stay to see the results, hurrying back behind cover before the soldiers could squeeze their triggers.

They fell back a step, then there was a pair of flat bangs and the incoming fire ended. Jediah immediately stepped out again, seeing men strewn about with metal shards embedded in their flesh. Most were dead but a couple were staggering about, merely dazed and confused. Instantly Jediah's bolt pistol barked, one and twice, cutting down the men before they could recover their wits.

Silence fell and Jediah nodded in satisfaction. Nimodes looked out himself and called, "All clear, let's move on."

Fiett and Varma stepped out but paused, they looked at Therro's corpse and Varma said, "Therro… he's gone. He's just gone, how could he be gone?"

Nimodes stated frankly, "We have no time to waste, remember your training. Losses are inevitable, deal with it."

The pair seemed stunned by the Sergeant's callous dismissal. Nimodes had always seemed a stern father figure to them but now he was as ruthless and uncaring as they had ever seen him. Fiett growled, "We should harvest his Gene-seed."

Nimodes barked, "You know he's too young, you all are, the Progenoids won't have matured yet. Therro would have understood that the mission is more important than any one man, now move out!"

Varma looked distressed and said, "But…"

"Forget him", snarled Jediah as he cut in, "That wastrel was careless and sloppy. He was idiotic enough to chase a known enemy around a blind corner into a trap, the Chapter is better off without his stupidity. He died poorly; his name will not be entered in the Scrolls of Honour."

That pronouncement brought shocked stares from the novices. The Scrolls of Honour were the record of all worthy Brothers and their greatest deeds, a testament to inspire future generations. Apart from the inheritance of the Gene-seed, the Scrolls were an Astartes' legacy to the future. To be stricken from the record was more than to be forgotten; as far as the Chapter was concerned Therro would never have existed.

Jediah had no patience for their existential horror; he spun on his heel and stormed off, forcing them to follow. He led them deeper into the base, hastening his pace as he heard the echoes of many boots ringing off the walls. There was no doubt that the whole base was alerted and even now the locals would be preparing more impressive fortifications.

Nimodes drew level with Jediah and seemed to have reached the same conclusion, for he said, "We are running out of time."

Jediah nodded and said, "The defences are alerted, we will have to fight our way deeper."

Nimodes shook his head and said, "That would take too long, we need heavy line-breakers and we need them now."

Jediah knew that he was right and realised this was as deep as they were going to get. They had to summon reinforcements but they couldn't do it here, they needed a large, open space to minimise the risk of a teleport failure. He looked about and saw a sign over his head, he paused to read it. The language was indecipherable at first, but then his stolen memories floated up and the words suddenly made sense. He scanned the labels and saw that there was a large storage vault nearby.

Swiftly Jediah veered off, headed towards the vault and the scouts followed. Soon they reached a non-descript door and broke in with a swift kick of a boot. Within they found a large echoing space, filled with freestanding racks of equipment and supplies. Nimodes scanned it in a heartbeat and declared, "This will have to do. Varma guard the door, Jediah, Fiett clear some space."

Hurriedly the Brothers set to, Nimodes kneeling to plant the Teleport beacon and begin fiddling with the mechanisms, muttering appeasing litanies all the while. Meanwhile Jediah moved to the racks and began emptying them then dragging them aside, his immense strength moving pallets of gear that should have taken a Servitor-lifter to shift. Soon a space cleared about Nimodes and the Sergeant began intoning the litany of awakening.

Yet before he could complete the sacred chant there was the loud bang of a bolter firing and a cry from the door as Varma called, "They're coming!"

Jediah snapped back, "How many?!"

Varma shouted back, "Fethloads!"

Jediah bit his lip, seeing that Nimodes needed more time to complete his rite. He made a snap decision and barked, "Fiett, keep working and stop for nothing. Varma and I will hold that door!" Then he drew his bolt pistol and dashed to the door, determined to hold the foe back as for as long as it took.


	24. Chapter 24

**Captum Ante Chapter 24**

Jediah leaned against the door jamb and felt it rattle as fat rounds struck the other side. He gripped his bolt pistol tightly and counted the seconds as they passed. Jediah had fought in countless assaults, both as attacker and defender and he knew suppressing fire when he heard it. The soldiers outside would doubtless be advancing even now, confident that their comrades' shooting would keep the intruders well back.

Any assault was a complex formula of speed, firepower and distance, one that Jediah was intimately familiar with and he knew exactly when to move. The countdown in his head reached zero and he leaned out for a heartbeat, braving the incoming fire to peer out. Just as he had expected there were a dozen men in blue uniforms, dashing forwards with their heads held low. Just behind them more men were poised, long-barrelled weapons spitting bullets at him.

Jediah's hand swept about and he squeezed the trigger of his bolt pistol, spraying rounds back at the oncoming men. The explosive rounds hit them dead on, detonating within their chests to spray gore everywhere. All this had taken barely a couple of seconds and Jediah moved back into cover but as he did so a lucky round clipped the side of his head. Jediah fell back with a curse, feeling blood pouring down the side of his neck. His hand came up to check the damage but he was relieved to find nothing more than a gouge across his cheek and half an ear missing. A flesh wound, one the Apothecaries could easily fix, leaving only an ugly scar.

He glanced at the other side of the door and saw Varma standing there, gripping his bolter tightly. Jediah was about to call out but then the novice stepped out and sprayed bolts from his own weapon at the foe. It was a single second before Jediah's countdown would have prompted him to move but the scout was fortunate for he ducked back into cover with a grin and shouted, "We're holding them!"

"Not for much longer," replied Jediah, "Nimodes, how's that beacon coming?"

From the centre of the room the Sergeant called back, "I need another minute."

"We don't have a minute," yelled Jediah angrily.

His count came down once more and he stepped out, spraying more rounds at the advancing enemy. There were more of them now, drawing in more and more men from the base and their numbers would soon be insurmountable. Jediah stepped back as his bolt pistol ran dry and he hastily reached to his belt for another clip.

At that moment there was a blur and the distinct shape of a stick-grenade flew into the room. Jediah snarled and tensed to move but Varma was quicker. With lightning reflexes, his hand shot out and snatched the grenade from mid-air and then he snap-threw it back the way it had come. It was an impressive feat but it cost him dear. A trio of rounds hit him in the shoulder, throwing him back in a spray of blood. The lad fell down with a cry and Jediah saw that he was exposed, yet before he could be hit again there was a flat bang as the grenade detonated. The incoming fire slacked off for a moment and Varma cradled his left arm to his chest as he flopped back into cover, pushing himself back with one foot.

Jediah shouted, "How badly are you hurt?"

Varma's voice was filled with pain but he declared, "It is nothing."

Jediah knew he was lying but had no time to help him. The veteran leaned out once more and sprayed bolt rounds down the corridor cutting down several men but seeing many, many more pouring up from behind. He cried, "Fiett get up here, Nimodes it's now or never!"

From behind them the Sergeant called, "It's ready!"

Jediah glanced over and saw the beacon blink once and then there was a burning crescendo of light. It started as a single spark, a tiny mote of energy that hung in the air for an instant and then it grew, expanding in all directions like oil poured on water. The light had a hard edge to it, a point where it suddenly stopped, dividing reality into light and dark. Fat sparks spat out from the blazing energy in all directions and there was an instant wind, created as matter was shoved aside to make way for something else.

Jediah' s teeth tingled and his skin itched to be in such close proximity to the energy. He felt like he was standing on the edge of a pit, a bottomless plunge into an infinite well of nothingness. It was crazy but he felt like if he lost his balance he would fall into the light and plummet forever, cast adrift in the Warp for Daemons to feast upon. The searing light filled the room from end to end and then it snapped off, leaving something behind.

Jediah blinked his eyes rapidly and saw bright purple spots, but then they faded and he saw nine towering warriors in Ceramite stood before him. One of them had twin lightning claws but the rest had wide boarding shields held before them. It was the Assault squad but not all of them. Jediah frowned as he saw an arm and a shoulder sticking out of a wall, it seemed one Brother had suffered a teleport failure and materialised inside solid rock.

There was nothing to be done for the lost Brother so the newcomers spread out, their helms clicking with vox chatter. Smoothly one Brother stepped up to the door and presented his shield. Bullets rang off the barrier but the warrior holding it didn't even sway. Smoothly he brought up his weapon, a flamer, and fitted it to a slot in the shield. A squeeze of the trigger and a plume of Promethium spat forth, filling the corridor beyond with raging flames. Brief screams rang out before being brutally cut off and the way was cleared. The Assault Squad didn't hesitate, stepping out into the raging inferno three abreast and heading out deeper into the base with shields held high. Jediah was forced to wait, his Scout armour not being nearly as fireproof as power armour.

As he waited he glanced at Varma and said, "Can you continue?"

Varma grimaced, still cradling his wounded arm and said, "I can still fight."

Jediah accepted his courage and the veteran's admiration crept up a notch, the lad was finally showing some grit. Soon the flames died back, leaving a charnel house behind and Jediah stepped out, Nimodes, Fiett and Varma following behind. The scouts moved forward warily, seeing the path the Assault Squad had taken and then they followed in their wake.

Over the next few minutes the scouts chased the Assault squad, seeing a trail of broken mortal bodies left in their unstoppable wake. The locals had nothing that could trouble the Assault Marines and the warriors were making swift progress. But that troubled Jediah in a different way.

The native soldiers would surely know that their base was falling, so would they trigger an Atomonic launch sequence? If so the mission would fail, but there was absolutely nothing they could do to prevent it. All the Space Marines could do was to fight their way forward, racing to reach the centre of the base before the locals grasped the scale of the threat set against them. Long minutes crawled past as they fought their way forward but then at last Jediah saw the Assault squad pause before a large metal door. It was a reinforced hatch, dug deep into the rock face and surrounded by dead guards. Jediah cried, "That's it, the main control room is behind that door."

"Acknowledged," came the voice of Sergeant Lorath, "preparing Melta bombs."

The scouts fell back as the Assault squad clamped flat ceramite discs to the metal door. Then there was a gurgling noise as they activated them. The door glowed cherry red for a moment, then brilliant white and then it collapsed, thick metal running like melting ice before a blowtorch. In seconds a scorching hole was ripped in the metal and the Assault squad advanced, bolters barking as they rushed into the room. Jediah was about to follow them but at that exact moment, a bullet smashed into the wall beside his head. He spun about and saw a party of local soldiers advancing from the rear, screaming as they charged and letting off random shots. A counter-attack, at the worst possible moment.

The men charged with fixed bayonets and Jediah met them with the point of his Fractal-edged short sword. The first man to come at him had his arms hacked off by one massive blow, the next was slashed across the throat and the one after that had his knee shattered by a single kick. Jediah moved through the men like a whirlwind, roaring in anger as he broke bodies and ended lives. Bayonets scored at him in return, drawing blood but the pain only made him fight harder and more furiously.

Out of the corner of his eye he saw Nimodes and Fiett fighting hard, cutting foes down relentlessly. Varma however was struggling, his wounded arm meaning he couldn't properly defend himself. Even as Jediah watched a man ran at him and sank a bayonet into his guts, spilling blood everywhere. At that moment something snapped in Varma's mind, some doubt in his soul finally breaking to reveal his true nature. The novice screamed in rage and headbutted the man, breaking his nose. Varma pulled the knife from his own belly and leapt forward, to plunge it into his opponent's heart. He carried onwards hacking and slashing at all he encountered and screaming in fury. Soldiers dropped before him as he carved a red-soaked path into the masses of men, becoming a frenzied berserker, uncaring if he lived or died. Soldiers fell in ragged heaps at his feet as he killed and killed, screaming all the while.

Jediah redoubled his efforts to match the youngster, slaughtering men left and right. Droves of them were ended by his blade and he showed no mercy or hesitation. At last the final soldier fell and Jediah breathed deeply, feeling the pull of his wounds. He glanced about, seeing Nimodes and Fiett standing proud among the piled dead, but of Varma there was no sign. Jediah looked for the fallen novice but then he saw a boot sticking out from under a pile of corpses.

Nimodes and Jediah shared a concerned look and hurried over, grabbing bodies and throwing them aside. Swiftly they cleared the pile of dead men and found the scout underneath. Fiett pressed forwards desperately and said, "Is he going to live?"

Jediah looked at the novice's wounds, seeing his guts strewn all over his legs and shook his head. The lad was too far gone, even for a Transhuman. Suddenly Varma gasped and his eyes fluttered, he blearily opened his eyes and saw the others standing over them. He looked up and whispered, "Sergeant…"

Nimodes put a hand on a shoulder and said, "Rest easy lad, you did well."

Varma seemed to understand what had happened to him but he showed no fear as he whispered, "Did we… succeed?"

Fiett replied, "Yes, the mission succeeded. The base has fallen, we are victorious."

Varma was growing distressingly pale as he croaked, "Did I… prove worthy?"

Jediah looked him in the eye and declared, "You fought well, you were strong and fierce this day. None shall doubt that you were a Storm Herald, as worthy an initiate as any whom ever marched under Terra's banner. Your name shall be entered in the Scrolls of Honour: Brother Varma."

Varma's face filled with distant wonder and he whispered, "Brother, I am a Brother… I did it, I ascended… I am… a…" then he fell silent and he spoke no more.

Jediah leaned in and closed the eyes, then he placed the lad's blade in his hands, honouring a fallen hero before declaring, "He died well."

Nimodes glanced over at the blown door, beyond which silence had fallen and he declared, "He died in victory."

Fiett however looked sad as he said, "They're all gone, I am the last."

Nimodes consoled him, "Such is the life of an Astartes. Remember this day, become a worthy Initiate and you shall be honouring his life and his death."

Jediah agreed and said, "You will have many opportunities to avenge Varma. The control room has fallen, the way is open for the Imperial invasion to begin. Now we just have to fight our way out of here and join them for the final victory."


	25. Chapter 25

**Captum Ante Chapter 25**

They could see the smoke from here, a distant column of grey soot rising over the horizon. It climbed into the heavens like a pillar holding up a high roof or a tower made of ashes. It rose ominously in the morning light, a testament to war and destruction with its billowing black clouds. The source of the smoke was hidden beyond the horizon but that didn't matter, there was only one possible place it could be coming from. Konnigsberg was burning; the political, economic and military heart of Nordlund had been ripped out.

Renhardt sighed and lowered his field-glasses then he rubbed his weary eyes. He had known something was wrong when all communications with the capital had suddenly died. In his heart he had known what had caused it, the sight of the smoke was all the confirmation he needed. There was no denying it: Nordlund had been invaded. The Kommandant turned about and saw a crowd of worried Soldats standing around the base of the hillock he was standing upon, waiting for news. The officer wanted to console them but he had nothing good to say, all he could do for now was to keep them busy.

Renhardt barked, "What are you horrible lot standing around for, get back to work!"

The Soldats hurriedly broke up and went back to their tasks, leaving one man standing there all alone. It was Von-Grod, he was standing casually with his hands shoved in his pockets and jiggling up and down to keep warm in the crisp mountain air. Renhardt sighed in exasperation, he knew the Chief Mechaniker was a civilian contractor but did he always have to be so brazen about it.

As Renhardt stepped down Von-Grod asked, "What's going on?"

Renhardt looked at him cautiously, trying to decide whether or not to tell the civilian about military matters. But then decided that there was no point hiding the obvious truth, regulations be damned it wasn't like he wouldn't figure it out anyway. Renhardt glumly replied, "Konnigsberg is gone."

Von-Grod blinked and said, "What, how is that possible?"

Renhardt shook his head and said, "The radar stations went dark just before dawn, the army scrambled to high alert but we were too slow. Before anyone knew what was happening we got a panicked call from the capital about an attack from the skies, then nothing but silence."

Von-Grod glanced about and leaned in conspiratorially saying, "Do you think it was them? The men from space?"

Renhardt answered, "Who else could it be?"

Von-Grod spat, "Dam Kongress and their heel-dragging, we should have been ready."

Renhardt replied despondently, "Hard to see how we could have been ready for this."

The Kommandant set off across the base, passing various worried looking Soldats in their duties. The pair made their way to the base's command room, the nerve centre of all its radar and communication abilities. As they walked Renhardt muttered, "I am just glad I got my family out of the city before the hammer fell."

"Yes, indeed" Von-Grod muttered dismissively then he asked, "So now what?"

Renhardt replied, "Now we prepare for war. A war unlike any Nordlund has ever fought before."

Von-Grod frowned as said, "I am loathe to say it but has anyone considered approaching the Concordance for aid? It's their world too."

Renhardt snorted in derision and said, "Are you joking? The Redskins are probably cheering right now. They've waited decades for their mad prophecies to come true and this is almost word for word what they've been waiting for…"

The Kommandant stopped suddenly and stood with his mouth agape. Von-Grod looked at him curiously and said, "What's wrong?"

"Damn it, damn them all to hell," Renhardt swore, "There's no almost about it, this is exactly what they've been waiting for. This was all planned, a plan that must have gone back decades. The damned Reds have been colluding with the space men all along."

Von-Grod looked incredulous as he said, "Surely not, why would anyone bother with such an elaborate plan?"

Renhardt stated, "Who knows how space travel works, maybe it took them that long to get here. So why fight an entire planet when you can send provocateurs ahead, to turn half of it to your cause first."

"We're in trouble," stated Von-Grod with epic understatement.

"Come on," spat Renhardt, "We have to contact the Marshalls now and coordinate our response."

The pair of them hurried onwards, passing into a large concrete building, surrounded by guards who saluted their Kommandant. They dashed past various offices and rooms filled with equipment and operators with large headsets clamped over their ears. The place was filled with busy Soldats, all of whom had a desperate frantic edge to their efforts. Every face was filled with apprehension and worry, the news of the morning's events clearly spreading even now.

Renhardt barrelled through a large pair of double doors, emerging onto a narrow balcony that ran around a circular room. Set below him was an expansive table, inscribed with a large map of Nordlund. Cities and rivers and roads were laid out before him in perfect detail. Overlaid on that map were tokens representing army groups, airbases, fighter squadrons and various fortifications. Junior officers with headsets over their ears moved icons to and fro upon command, using long sticks to shift tokens to represent real army movements.

It was a confusing heap of colours and lines but to an experienced eye it showed the disposition of every major military asset on the continent. The only thing missing was the icons of Atonomic launch silos, none of the junior officers present having high enough clearance to know where they were secreted.

Renhardt ran up to the balcony railing and took in the map at a glance, seeking out the location of Konnigsberg. It should be surrounded by a plethora of tokens but even as he watched junior officers were scooping them up and disposing of them. Each one telling a grim tale of a lost formation who could not be reached. One could hope that they were merely cut off but in his heart Renhardt knew that they were gone for good.

He scanned the coastlines, looking for Red icons but thankfully saw none. It seemed the Concordance hadn't managed to coordinate a simultaneous strike. Yet there was a curious lump of tokens out in the middle of nowhere, each one turned over to show a black face so to represent an unknown force. Renhardt had a nasty suspicion that this was the bulk of the space men's army arriving and they were setting up a beachhead, right in the middle of the farmbelt.

His eyes wandered over the map again and then he swore, "Blast it!"

Von-Grod looked lost and said, "I don't understand, what's happening?"

Renhardt replied, "Look at Fort Alastagg, its gone dark too. The Marshalls were gathered there, all of them, they might be dead too."

"Yes they are," came a voice from behind them, "Not one made it out alive."

Renhardt froze and his grip on the rail tightened. He forced himself to let go then turned around, seeing Director Neadler standing behind them. In their rush they had missed the psychic standing quietly on the balcony, but he must have been here for some time. Neadler's presence set Renhardt's teeth on edge; he wanted to be as far away from him as possible. Unfortunately the Chancellor had given the Director authority and he had every right to stand there.

Renhardt forced himself to breathe out and said, "You see the situation then?"

"Yes," Neadler declared stepping forward, "We have been attacked, our entire leadership has been wiped out in one swift strike."

"Surely not," said Von-Grod, "What about Mount Daulshorn?"

"Gone," replied Neadler, "They hit that too."

Von-Grod gasped and said, "How could they know about that?"

Neadler replied candidly, "That spy, it was the whole reason he came here."

Renhardt asked sadly, "Do we know who has command precedence?"

Neadler gave him a solemn look and answered, "You do."

"Me?" gulped Renhardt who had never expected such authority to be laid upon him, "But I'm a long way down the chain of command."

Neadler stated frankly, "Everybody above you is missing or dead, you have complete command of Nordlund's defences now. The P.I.A. can't assume authority on such a scale, the Soldats won't respect our authority. It's up to you to make the decision."

"Decision?" asked Renhardt, "What decision?"

Neadler stated, "About whether or not to launch the Atonomic bombs."

Renhardt frowned in confusion and said, "Wait that's not possible, we don't have the authorisation codes here. The silo crews won't obey any order that's not properly authenticated."

Neadler looked superior as he said, "The P.I.A. has a workaround for that, we can convince the crews but the only authority they will respect is yours."

Von-Grod's eyes narrowed and he spat, "That's a violation of Kongressional law, you shouldn't have that power."

Neadler shrugged and said, "Kongress is gone, we're in charge now. So what's it to be?"

Renhardt wasn't sure; he had never had responsibility for such a monumental decision before. He now held the life of every man, woman and child on Camollum in his hands and didn't know what to do. The invaders were on their doorstep and their whole way of life was under threat, the principles he had sworn to protect. Should he give the ultimate order and end it all. Did he have the right to do that? Did he have the right not to?

Renhardt looked at his companions, Von-Grod looking scared and afraid, Neadler looking supremely confident. No, not confident, he looked positively gleeful at the prospect of killing millions, like he wanted to see the world burn. It was that which stirred Renhardt's defiance; he straightened his spine and said, "No, I won't give the order. Not yet."

Neadler's face fell and he spat, "But…"

Renhardt declared, "We still have the bulk of our army and we have not yet begun to fight. I won't burn our country to ashes until I have spent the last bullet and fired the last shell."

Neadler grimaced and said, "Very well, if that is your decision. The P.I.A. has several procedures that can help, we can lend our power to the defence of Nordlund."

"Hah!" snorted Von-Grod, "I seem to recall similar promises before this all kicked off. What did your mystical mumbo-jumbo get us; nothing!"

Neadler's lip curled in anger and he spat, "Do not mistake subtly for inaction. There are forces in motion you could not possibly understand, cosmic schemes do not play out to your feeble timetable."

"Enough," said Renhardt wearily, "We can't afford to fight among ourselves. Neadler if you think you can make a difference then do so, but recall your Sturmtruppes. We will need them for the defence of this base."

The Director nodded and the Kommandant turned to face the room, every eye looked up at him and he drew in a breath. Trying to sound confident he called, "Hear me Soldats. As of this moment we are now the nerve centre of Nordlund and here our resistance will begin. I want you to contact every army group on the continent, tell them that we are mustering to resist full-scale invasion. All assets are to prepare for a counter-attack and I want status reports on every man left to us. Draw in all local units to this position, to form a defence. Make no mistake the fight back begins now, Nordlund will not fall on our watch!"

The Soldats cheered at the stirring words and set to their duties with eager relish, calling together their armies. Renhardt walked off followed by Von-Grod, but Neadler remained where he was.

Unseen by all he quietly smiled, then whispered, "Cosmic forces are indeed in motion and it doesn't matter who wins this fight. Whether the deaths come by slow, grinding warfare or by quick Atonomic annihilation makes no difference. Millions of lives will be sacrificed to you, Lord Tzeentch, as we promised so long ago. The way shall be opened and I shall stand as the forerunner of this new age. You shall have this world and I shall ascend from the ashes on wings of flame."

Then Neadler sank back contentedly and watched events play out before him.


	26. Chapter 26

**Captum Ante Chapter 26**

The wind tussled Arvael's hair as they sped along, whooshing in his ears as they travelled down the road at high speed. The lad was stood in the cupola of the Land Raider, Pride of Lujan, looking out upon the world. Behind him drove the rest of the armoured convoy, alert and ready but not currently fighting any battle. It was technically less safe for him out here but none of the older Brothers had denied his youthful impetuousness and they had indulged his impulse to gaze upon this world.

All around him fields of wheat were swaying in a gentle breeze, interspersed with fruit orchards and mooing bovine cattle. Occasionally they would see a labourer working in the fields, seemingly oblivious to the changes coming to their world. Yet when the armoured convoy rolled past they would hurriedly dash away. It truly was a glorious day, without a cloud in the sky save those made by men. High above Imperial Lightning and Thunderbolt fighters left contrails in the heavens as they dashed to and fro, engaging the crude local aircraft. Marauders flew in formations behind them, on course to deliver destruction far and wide. For two days now the Imperial Navy had fought a constant battle to hold back the native's counter-offensive, while the Imperial Guard brought down the bulk of its army from orbit.

Arvael could see them now, the massive drop lifters coming down from on high, to disgorge troops in a newly erected base. Each lander was a mammoth construction, surrounded by electrostatic discharges from their anti-gravs. Even those already landed were the size of tall buildings and from their holds poured regiments of troops, armoured vehicles, artillery and construction rigs. As Imperial Armies went this was a small and unimpressive gathering, perhaps no more than one hundred and fifty thousand fighting men, not counting support staff. Yet it was enough to grind the local's armies into dust, crushing all resistance beneath the Hammer of the Emperor.

Unfortunately the power of the Imperial Guard was not matched by its speed, getting all those men down to the ground and ready to fight was a slow and laborious affair. Leaving them exposed and vulnerable. For this reason Third Company had been extremely busy over the last two days, fighting hard to keep the enemy at bay.

Over and over the Space Marines had hit the native's armies, breaking formations and scattering troops. Astartes had neither the numbers nor the temperament for attrition warfare, they left that to the likes of the Guardsmen. Instead they had struck hard and fast across the continent, smashing looming threats apart and then withdrawing with eye-watering speed. Arvael had seen more of tank war in the last two days then he had in a lifetime before that. But now the Guard was at last ready to deploy and Third Company was headed back to regroup for the big push.

As the lad watched the armoured convoy drove past the outer perimeter, waved by cheering Guardsmen. These men had been raised from birth to revere the Astartes as the Emperor's warrior-angels and they sang hymns and chanted prayers of gratitude to see them pass. A tiny voice in Arvael's mind whispered that this was only right and proper, that it was his due as a superior being but he crushed that notion with sheer force of will. Space Marines should be above self-aggrandisement, he told himself, humility and piety were the proper virtues to be cultivated. Let the Guardsmen fall into religious fits if they will, the Storm Heralds knew that the only being worthy of praise, was Him on Terra.

With a sudden jolt the Land Raider halted before a slab-sided armoury, throwing Arvael forwards in the cupola. The assault ramp ground down and Captain Toran dismounted, followed by his command squad, along with Chaplain Wrethan and Apothecary Memnos. Arvael promptly dropped down and dismounted the vehicle too, stepping past various Chapter serfs who were hurrying to attend to the ancient machine's spirit and soothe its wounds. Arvael kept close to Chaplain Wrethan, as he had been instructed. He heard the senior officers talking about the campaign but he was busy looking around the base. As a scout he had always been on the periphery of the Chapter's actions and it fascinated him to see the very heart of this activity. The noise and industriousness were shocking and everywhere he looked Serfs and Guardsmen busied to and fro on a multitude of tasks.

As they marched Arvael saw a trio of transhumans headed their way, it was Sergeant Nimodes, Jediah and Fiett. Arvael frowned to see their squad was short by two but before he could say anything Captain Toran called, "Hail Brothers, congratulations on a successful mission."

Nimodes replied, "Hail Brother-Captain, my thanks and I congratulate you in turn."

While they were speaking Arvael tried to catch Fiett's eye but his former squadmate refused to look at him. Arvael's hearts sank as he realised it wasn't just because of his Psyker nature, this was grief, Therro and Varma must be dead. He always had known that this was possible but knowing in theory and actual experience were two different things and he felt the loss keenly.

The Captain however was already enquiring about the other squads saying, "Is everyone back?"

Nimodes stated, "Everybody but Matheus' task force. They ran into some armoured forces over by the coast, nothing they couldn't handle though. They should be back in a couple of hours."

"Good," said Toran, "This resistance has been surprisingly effective. I suspect that the natives are still being coordinated by some central authority."

"Surely not," stated Wrethan, "We have decapitated their entire leadership."

Toran rubbed his chin and said, "No, this has been too good, too cohesive. The Primarch often wrote that assumptions are the well-springs of mistakes. We assumed that we had destroyed all higher leadership but we made a mistake."

Nimodes interjected, "We have intercepted a lot of vox chatter and have serfs pouring over it. Maybe that will reveal something."

Toran nodded and said, "Good, Jediah you have more local knowledge than anyone. I want your eyes on those reports; find me a head to lop off."

Jediah nodded then set off at a brisk pace however Nimodes stepped closer and said, "Captain, there is a serious matter to address, it concerns Company discipline."

"Oh," stated Toran with a frown, "I must attend to this immediately. Chaplain, Apothecary with us, everybody else: dismissed."

Everybody set off to various duties, leaving Arvael unsure what to do but Apothecary Memnos said, "You might as well come, you've seen the good parts of us but you need to see the bad too. Warts and all."

The group set off and Toran probed, "What has happened?"

Nimodes drew in a sad breath and then replied, "It was Mylos' squad, during the attack on the ruler's palace. One of his squad, Brother Harrim, broke ranks. The enemy rushed through the gap and nearly overran the squad, they fought them off but Brother Zurast was killed."

"He abandoned his post?" interposed Arvael aghast at the thought, "Why?"

Nimodes replied, "It seems he spied the local ruler and thought to capture him, but alone and unsupported he failed and his absence cost the life of a Brother."

Memnos stated suspiciously, "That was Mylos' idea, are we sure Harrim wasn't acting under orders?"

Nimodes replied, "He says not and I am inclined to believe him. This was but a moment's rash carelessness."

Arvael couldn't believe it; he had thought that the Initiates were above such mistakes, that their discipline was rock solid. Memnos caught the look on his face and commented, "What, did you think Space Marines were infallible? That we are incapable of making mistakes? Would that it was so, but sadly even the best of us can make poor choices. None of us is perfect."

Arvael mused on this as the group approached a small barracks, which had been sealed off by a pair of Initiates standing guard. Toran led them inside and there they found two Brothers, one with an augmetic leg and a marksman's laurel, the other a scarred veteran. It was Sergeant Mylos and the wayward Brother Harrim. They stood to attention as the officers entered, but Harrim hung his head in shame.

Toran looked him up and down then said, "Harrim, you have been accused of grave transgressions. How do you justify this deed?"

Harrim didn't look up as he said, "I have no defence to offer."

"None?" asked Wrethan in surprise, "Then you confess your willful disobedience and accept the due punishment."

Harrim replied, "I do."

Suddenly Mylos spat angrily, "Well I don't."

Toran shook his head and said, "He has already confessed, what more is there to say?"

Arvael was confused by this but Mylos spat, "He saw an opportunity and he seized it. Had he captured the local's ruler then this war would be over already and he would be a hero of the Chapter."

Wrethan growled, "But he didn't, he failed and cost the life of a Brother."

Mylos looked furious as he spat, "In his situation would any of us have acted differently, would we not take the same gamble he did. I know I would have."

Memnos leaned in and asked, "Did you give him an order to do this or did he abandon his post to go chasing off after personal glory? Did he put pride before duty?"

Harrim spoke up to say, "Masters, do not hold the Sergeant to account for my sake. I acted alone and I accept my punishment."

Arvael gulped at that, the punishment for such a sin was terrible indeed. A quick death would be a kindness compared to some of the torments in store for such a criminal. Mylos however yelled, "This isn't right! Harrim has served for decades faultlessly. He stood with us against Vorshaan the Dusk Prince; he's one of the Primarch's Own. You can't do this."

"Watch your tone, you veer dangerously close to insubordination," growled Wrethan, "And we do not talk about the Primarch's Own."

Toran stepped between them, hands raised and said, "Peace Brothers, peace. We must consider this in context, Harrim made a grievous error but it is his first. He has never shown less than excellence before, we would be fools to throw all that away."

Wrethan snarled, "Past behaviour is no excuse, he cannot escape his just punishment."

"I never said he would," replied Toran, "Yet a wayward Brother may return to the fold, if he is given a chance to redeem himself. To prove his worth and honour for all to see."

"A penitent crusade," murmured Memnos in understanding, "A Death Oath."

Arvael was stunned by that, penitent crusades were a form of exile meted out to those who had grievously erred. It was almost a form of ritual suicide but one with honour. To die fighting impossible odds, all alone, was a noble end, one that would redeem any previous misdeeds. Few indeed returned from such dire quests, and yet those who did were proclaimed to be heroes and were held to be on the path to greatness. The names of every single Brother who had returned from a Death Oath was immortalised, for they had all gone on to perform epic feats in their time.

Mylos still looked angry but Wrethan declared, "It is fitting, I must ask that you all leave, there are preparations that must be made."

The Brothers nodded and turned to step outside, leaving Harrim to learn the nature of his lonely quest. Arvael however was stunned, he had never known that such blunders could occur so high among the ranks. That even ascension was no barrier to error and imperfection. The glorious sunshine outside seemed wholly inappropriate, it felt like the skies should be gloomy and raining in mourning. He couldn't forget the look on Harrim's face and in his hearts Arvael hoped that the wayward Brother would manage to complete his penitent crusade and redeem himself.

The others followed him out and Memnos said, "This is a sad day for the Chapter."

"Aye," Nimodes commented, "But perhaps we can salvage something from this mess."

Toran however sounded resolute as he said, "Come, let us inquire if Jediah has found anything yet. Third Company will need action to keep them focussed once word of this gets out and I am in the mood to kill somebody."

With that the Captain led them on, and Arvael trailed behind, wondering if he would ever have to pronounce such verdicts himself.


	27. Chapter 27

**Captum Ante Chapter 27**

The enemy was in sight, a long column of tracked vehicles climbing the road into the mountains. Their blue armour shone in the waning dusk, covered in odd iconography and symbols. There was a stench of overbearing pride about these machines, an arrogance to their appearance, as if the crews had no regard for basic camouflage. No, it was more than that, it was like they wanted to be seen. Like they wanted everyone to know that they were coming and that there was absolutely nothing that could be done to stop them.

That was not the only strange thing about these machines; their hulls were unusually broad and high, as if the crews required more space than the average man. Strange weapons hung in sponsons on the vehicles' sides, an odd choice but the barrels looked lethal regardless. Their formation made little sense either, heading right towards the mountains in full view of anyone with eyes to see. It was a monumental conceit, an insult towards those who would deny them. Either they were recklessly overconfident or utterly certain that nothing mere men could do would stop them.

Renhardt sighed and lowered his field-glasses then rubbed his bleary eyes. He was currently stood upon a ridge in the land, an outcropping that let him see down the long slopes of the hillside and out to the farmbelt beyond. His eyes lifted and he looked upon the ground all around, he was standing at the apex of a valley leading to his base, formed by two rolling foothills. The location of the base had been chosen with care, this valley was a natural chokepoint, where the roadway was forced to double back on itself several times. Any attacking force would be bottled up here in the valley, caught in the road and perilously vulnerable.

Renhardt considered this; even now he had men bunkering down on both flanks. There were Soldats, armed with long Blunderbusses and heavy weapon teams by the score. He had mortar teams positioned just behind a ridge on the left. Panzers had been slotted into pre-dug firing pits, hunkering hull-down behind cover. Multiple Flakk batteries were behind him, primed and ready to fend off any airborne attacker and he had a secret counter-punch in reserve for any breakthroughs. Against any other force such a potent defence would have proved impregnable but somehow Renhardt doubted it would hold against this foe.

Renhardt was worried about what was to come, for he had seen the reports. The last three days had seen his base become the nerve centre of Nordlund's resistance, the heart of their defence but it had achieved little. For three days his officers had desperately organised counter attacks and troop musters, rallying whatever they could and snatching barely a few minutes sleep here and there. Yet for all that, they had been thwarted at every turn.

Every troop muster had been scattered, every counter offensive blunted, every attack broken before it could even be launched. Whole armies had been scattered, leaving only desperate cries of 'Mechinikal men' and 'Giant killers' as a testament. Some Soldats had even forsaken their rationality and fallen back on ancient dogmas, crying 'The Angels of Death have come'. The enemy had been everywhere, always one step ahead of his plans and seeming to know what he would do before he did it. He was certain that there must at least several thousand of these spacemen at large in Nordlund and he was at a loss for how to stop them.

Then the call had come, the enemy had been sighted climbing into the foothills and he knew that the foe had found them.

Renhardt turned and stepped away, finding his juniors waiting. He spent a few minutes adjusting battle plans and reciting vague platitudes he no longer believed in, then he dismissed them. That left two men behind, Director Neadler and Mechaniker Von-Grod. Renhardt sighed, these civilians had no proper place on a battlefield, but he was too tired to argue with them. With the end of the world on his shoulders, he no longer cared about regulations and it wasn't any safer at the base. He was well back; as any sane leader should be and they would be as safe as he was.

Von-Grod lit an iho-stick and said, "Can someone, please tell me why we're not running away?"

Neadler answered, "Because there's nowhere to run to, there's nothing behind us but mountains."

Von-Grod remarked, "Can't we weather this out up there, fight back from the caves and woods?"

Renhardt sighed, the man's grasp of military logistics was feeble and he said "No, do you have any idea how hard it is to feed thousands of men, to fashion weapons and equipment. Our fighting strength would be wasted. We'd put up a feeble resistance for while then fade to nothing but an irritant. Besides our entire chain of command has been obliterated, our base is the last authority left. Without us Nordlund's armies will be isolated, each regiment left to fight its own war. Like it or not this is our last stand, the war will be won or lost right here."

"We're ready," said Neadler eagerly, "My Sturmtruppes are standing by. There will be a great slaughter today."

Something about his tone sent a chill down Renhardt's spine, and he noted the Director had failed to mention who would be the ones slaughtered. He longed to dismiss the man, to have him sent far away but his Strumtruppes were the only force that may yet turn the tide.

Renhardt was distracted by a cry from the lookouts and he dashed back up the ridge. He raised his field-glasses and saw the enemy dismounting from their vehicles far below, just beyond mortar range. He scanned their lines and saw about a hundred men gathering around, but what men. Each of them was an eight-foot giant, clad in armour plate more suitable to a Panzer. Their weight and heft spoke of great power and there was a ponderous inevitability about them, a sense that they would walk through anything thrown at them and just keep going.

Before them an officer was pacing up and down, shouting encouragements. He wore a red cape, a ridiculous affectation in battle, and was followed by a junior clad in white and another in black. Some of the troops had banners stuck to their backs and a lot of them hefted serrated swords, actual swords as if they expected to use them. It was like a scene from the worst sort of dramatized action-pict, a piece of asinine theatre brought to life. Renhardt thought, are these people here to fight or mess about?

Beside him Von-Grod was shielding his eyes and said, "Who's that lot at the back?"

Renhardt looked up and saw a single black vehicle, with a large 'I' on the side. Smaller, regular sized men were milling about it but being roundly ignored by the giants. Neadler sounded angry as he spat, "Witch hunters."

The Kommandant didn't grasp how the Director knew that but had no time to ask for he saw the enemy make their move. Suddenly they were racing forward, with no attempt to take cover or avoid the inevitable mortar barrage. Renhardt would have sworn it was the tactics of idiots but he wasn't about to pass the opportunity up. He lifted his radio horn and said, "Mortars, prepare to fire on my command…"

He waited for a moment, letting the spacemen continue their suicidal charge. Then one moment before he could give the command something small and ferociously fast screamed from the sky and a massive ball of flame arose from just behind the ridgeline. Renhardt's jaw dropped as he realised that it was the mortar's positions and that they were disappearing beneath a sea of incendiary fire.

"What was that?" spat Von-Grod.

Renhardt said sadly, "An air-to-ground rocket."

"Impossible," gasped Von-Grod, "Nothing could close within rocket range with being picked up by our radar."

"First rule of close air support," growled Renhardt, "The ground is always in range."

As he watched the foe began barrelling up the slopes, climbing up steep inclines like they were nothing. There was a terrible inevitably about their movements, a speed and a grace quite at odds with their massive bulk. He saw giant warriors bounding up slopes that he would have sworn a billy goat couldn't have climbed and he realised that the terrain was proving no obstacle to the foe at all.

Neadler spat, "Let me send in the Sturmtruppes."

"No," barked Renhardt, "Panzers, open fire."

The hillside lit up as a half-dozen concealed Panzers unleashed hell, sending high explosive shells hurtling into the massed enemy. A series of detonations erupted at their feet and bodies were thrown about by the blasts. Renhardt almost cheered but the cry died in his throat when he saw most of the foe picking themselves up, with perhaps one or two of them lying unmoving. One of the foes had even lost an arm but didn't seem in the least bit hampered by it.

"What does it take to kill these things?" the Kommandant muttered.

From the rear of the enemy the largest vehicle lifted its weapons and fired, sending out four spears of blazing energy from its sponsons. The blasts hit a pair of Panzers dead on, burrowing through the protective earth like it was nothing and penetrating the machines behind. The tanks blew up in terrific fireballs, spreading filthy smoke in fat plumes then the enemy machine pivoted and did it again and again.

"Ray-guns," breathed Von-Grod, "They have ray-guns."

Renhardt bit back a response at the civilian's incredulity; he really had no business being here. Instead he barked, "All positions, wait for them to close into range… now! Fire at will."

The hillsides lit up with a frenzied barrage of bullets and heavy fire, sending waves of destruction down the slopes. Soldats blazed away, emptying whole magazines at the oncoming foe, screaming their defiance in fits of rage. The spacemen were hit dead on, their armour gouged and ripped by the torrents coming at them. Finally the weight of fire told and a couple went down, overcome by sheer weight of fire.

Renhardt was elated but before he could capitalise upon it there was a scream from the sky and something new emerged. A trio of small craft appeared from nowhere, skimming over the ground just above head height. They moved like aircraft but had no wings or visible means of lift. Renhardt barely had time to see them approach before they whisked past, nose and pintle weapons blazing to carve long furrows in the knots of men before them. Soldats, good brave men of Nordlund, were carved apart by the carnage and before anyone could blink the machines were past them, dashing away to safety.

Renhardt was aghast, what else did the enemy have in store?

He was soon answered when from the rear of the massed foe a new threat emerged. There was a blast of thunder and suddenly a score of men was lifted up into the sky. Flying high on plumes of flame twenty giant warriors soared overhead. They had rockets strapped to their backs, actual rockets Renhardt realised and were crossing the distance to the embedded Soldats at an impossible rate.

Their landing was like a barrage of mortar bombs going off, the impacts throwing Soldats away like rag dolls but the enemy wasn't done yet. They lifted those serrated swords high and swung them like meat cleavers, carving brave men apart with every blow. They were merciless, they were terrifying and they were utterly unstoppable. In close combat Nordlund's Soldat's proved to be hopelessly outmatched, for the giant warriors wrecked a ghastly carnage amongst them. Red paths of ruin were carved into the last defence of Nordlund, destroying the embedded troops and letting the rest of the foe advance unmolested.

Renhardt was aghast; all his plans had been worthless. Their best defence hadn't stopped the enemy; it hadn't even slowed them down. He had thrown everything he had left at the spacemen and barely managed to inconvenience them.

Besides him Neadler said, "Let me send in the Strumtruppes!"

Renhardt could only nod in dumbfound disbelief and as he watched the black-clad battle-psykers slipped past. Hundreds of them, charging down the slopes, already twisting and mutating in form with Neadler following on behind. Renhardt didn't know why but the sight sent a shiver down his spine and the thought occurred to him that he might just have let something far worse than the enemy off its leash.


	28. Chapter 28

**Captum Ante Chapter 28**

The Sturmtruppe was a filthy wretch, with long twisted tentacles for hands and a lamprey like mouth. It charged forward a screech of rage, hurling itself at the Ceramite giants before it. Jediah met it with a stab of his Fractal-edged short-sword, that slit its skin and forced it back a step.

The Sturmtruppe hissed like a snake and circled around, looking for an opening. It was a fierce and deadly creature, utterly horrific and hideous to look upon but Jediah was unimpressed. As his opponent bunched up to attack Jediah casually lifted his bolt pistol and shot it in the face. The Sturmtruppe's head exploded as the bolt detonated within it and the Battle Brother stepped over its corpse, his power amour flecked with blood.

Jediah had a moment to look about, seeing the battle unfold around him. He was fighting alongside his Captain, back in his esteemed power armour. It was glorious to be reunited with his plate, the strength and protection it offered having being sorely missed. The armour's Spirit seemed equally pleased at their reunion and it responded smoothly to his movements, lending its power to his blows.

All around him Astartes warriors grappled with twisted mutants, fighting furiously in a scrum of heaving flesh. The battle had been going well up to this point, being barely even a skirmish by the Astartes' standards, until these mutants had arrived. Now the Storm Heralds were reduced to hacking their way forwards through a wall of flesh, mixed with blue uniforms, even the men of Nordlund seeming to find their courage in the heat of the moment.

Chainswords roared and boltguns fired, as the two sides met. A hammering thunder of noise and violence as the warriors battled on, creating a mad scrum of grappling men upon the steep slopes. The Astartes were made for such fights and they reaped a fearfully tally but they were not having everything their own way.

Twisted mutants leapt forwards with vicious claws and sharp fangs growing from their flesh. Some breathed fire or threw Space Marines aside with telekinetic blasts, claiming noble lives with their vile sorcery. Psychic shrieks battered transhumans backwards and mutants with obscenely swollen muscles matched gene-forged warriors blow for blow. Jediah felt his hatred surge at the sight, these filthy witches dared to test the power of the Emperor's Finest and they would die for this affront.

Jediah stabbed a mutant in the neck and let it fall under his boot and as he did so he saw the Inquisitorial party, hanging well back from the fight. How typical of the Inquisition, he thought to himself. Inquisitor Zerban had forced his way into this strike force by dint of his Rosette's authority but he was leaving the fighting to the Storm Heralds. That snake would probably only show up at the last moment, just in time to take the credit. How weak, Jediah thought, how mortal. An Astartes was a being built and bred for war, forged in the fires of conflict and conditioned to reject weakness and failure. Even the least of them had strength and willpower beyond mortal comprehension.

Jediah' attention was forced back as a tight knot of Strumtruppes ran straight at them, throwing themselves into the fray with whoops of feral glee. Jediah's world shrank down to his immediate surroundings and he was forced to meet them with the edge of his blade. All around the black-clad mutants wrestled with the Ceramite clad Transhumans, spilling blood and tearing into each other in a frenzy of violence.

A pair of Sturmtruppes came right at Jediah and he twisted around to avoid the crab-like claw that came at his helm. The blow sailed past his head and Jediah swung his sword, lopping off the arm in a single blow. The mutant didn't seem concerned by the loss of a limb, throwing itself at him with a screech of fury. The attack would have cut down any mortal man but Jediah was faster than his foe. He stepped into the charge and raised his blade, running the point right through the open mouth and out of the back of his opponent's head.

The first Strumtruppe fell silently before him but the other one came at him from the flank and dove upon him. A long talon carved down Jediah's pauldron, marring the Chapter's icon emblazoned there and he snarled in fury at the insult to his honour. Jediah reached around but his sword arm was pinned by the thrashing mutant and he had no angle of attack. Instead he clipped his bolt pistol to his belt and reached around, grasping the mutant by its throat. The filthy thing thrashed and beat at his plate but Jediah was relentless as he closed his grip and crushed its throat in his hand. The mutant kicked and struggled but soon its defiance grew feeble and it went limp and still.

Jediah grinned as he watched the life leave its eyes and its complexion went grey in death. Jediah opened his grip and let the body fall at his feet, then he pressed onwards, fighting through the battling knots of men and Marines. The Sturmtruppes were fighting hard but they were no match for the power of the Astartes, they would claim a bloody tally in death but they would still die nonetheless.

At this point Jediah realised that he had become separated from his squad and that he was fighting alone. He was about to look about and find his Captain but at that moment the scrum of bodies parted and Jediah spied three men he knew all too well. High above him was the Kommandant of Nordlund, along with that little tinkering adept Von-Grod and the accursed Witch Neadler, all looking down at him.

Jediah opened his vox and called, "I can see the leaders!"

"Go take them out," ordered the voice of Captain Toran, "We're bogged down here but you can make it."

Jediah was instantly in motion, charging up the hill. He bounded up the steep slope with powerful pushes of his armoured legs, bashing men aside as he charged. He knew that these three were the heart and head of the local's resistance, the last bastion of defiance. He ran forwards with weapons in hand, racing to reach them. This was no mad berserker charge though, nor a thirst for the glory of being the one to claim their heads. Killing these men would crush the spirit of the locals and end the fight. A bold strategy yet a sound one and Jediah was more than capable of performing it all on his own.

Jediah gripped his short sword tightly and planned his first strike, rehearsing the fight to come and preparing his tactics. He would have liked to have taken his time to savour this but the situation did not allow for that. He would have to be swift and precise, taking no time to linger over the bodies. Three short thrusts and he could end this war.

Yet it was not to be.

Suddenly there was a crack of thunder from above and from the cloudless sky stabbed down a bolt of purple lighting. It hit the dirt and blasted up an explosion of multi-hued energy, throwing men aside in gory heaps of offal. Jediah was stunned, for this was completely unexpected but before he could grasp what had happened there was another bolt and another. Each blast was completely different in hue, red, blue, green, yellow and orange but each one had the same effect.

Explosions rocked the hillside, devastating the packed ranks of men and spraying entrails over everything, even Ceramite proved no defence. Jediah saw Vancer of Mylos' squad take a direct hit, standing locked into agonising stillness as indigo lighting coursed through him. Jediah watched in horror as the proud Astartes collapsed in a charred heap of ashes but that was just the start of the calamity.

As if seeing a pre-arranged signal the Sturmtruppes broke off from their fight. Turning their back on the Astartes the witches threw themselves at their fellow countrymen. Claws cut into mortal flesh and black fangs bit deep on throats, tearing out jugulars to let blood flow. All around the hideous laughter of the truly insane rang aloud as the army of Nordlund tore itself apart.

Jediah was stunned but his training refused to let him stand dumbfounded. He pressed on through the madness, closing on the local's leaders but before him he saw a terrible sight. The three leaders were shouting at each other, grappling and shoving in a scrum of mad anger. Even as Jediah watched, Neadler punched the Kommandant and sent him flying, with far more strength than his body should possess. The old soldier was flung away and as he tumbled on the ground Neadler stabbed his hand into Von-Grod's guts. Black talons sprang forth and tore at the mechanic's belly, leaving Von-Grod doubled over in agony as his insides spilled out.

Jediah saw Neadler shrieking with glee, throwing up his arms and shouting, "Das Opfer beginnt! Komm mächtiger Tzeentch, der Weg ist offen. Sende mir deinen Diener, sende mich, Harbinger!" But it was Von-Grod whose eyes went distant, as if listening to something only he could hear and his lips formed one word, "Yes…"

From above a single blast of lightning speared down and hit Von-Grod full-on, engulfing him in a burning corona of many colours. The man shrieked in pain as the power poured down, filling his flesh with the potency of the Warp. Even as Jediah watched in horror the man rose off the ground and began to change. Neadler was screaming in frustration and he shrieked, "No, no, no, not him… me! It was meant for me, you promised it!" But then the corona flared and Neadler was consumed by the light, his flesh transmuting at the atomic level and leaving behind only a pillar of salt, shaped like a man.

Meanwhile Von-Grod's limbs began to elongate and stretch, becoming skeletal and crooked in their joints. His feet erupted from their boots, growing longer and sprouting claws until they resembled a raptor's talons. His flesh sprouted feathers and long robes spilled out of nowhere, covered in macabre runes. From his back emerged a pair of wings, shimmering with many colours and swelling moment by moment.

Many golden rings appeared upon his long fingers and jewels of many hues hung from his arms and wings. In his hand a spark of light grew longer and longer, solidify into reality until it birthed a long golden staff, crested with a blue flame and an eye that blinked as if alive.

Worst of all was Von-Grod's head, which stretched like putty, growing a protracted neck while his face was pulled apart as a long, curved beak emerged. He was left as a macabre parody of life, a monstrous vulture-like being, three times the height of an Astartes. The thing hovered over the ground and laughed in a voice made from the overlapping voices of many men and women It was a horrific sight, beyond its mere physical travesty. Its mere presence was an offence to the air and the dirt, making them shiver and tremble in revulsion. An oily shimmer surrounded it in a dirty halo of unlight and sparks of energy flew around it in tight orbits.

Jediah was stunned by the sight before him and he saw reality twist and change, the power of the Warp remaking space and time with ease. Mortal men screamed as their limbs and bodies twisted before their eyes, sprouting claws, feathers, mouths or ears in response to the abomination's presence. They wept and they ran and more than a few put guns in their own mouths and blew out their brains, rather than live in a world that could contain such nightmares. Even the dead were not immune, ropes of entrails writhing like snakes and crawling across the ground.

The abomination was a horror beyond comprehension, a nightmare let loose in the waking world. It was the anathema of all that was good and pure, the ultimate enemy of mankind and the doom of the universe. Jediah was appalled as the thing that had once been Von-Grod set a talon upon the ground and he knew that the Imperium had been so very wrong about the true foe they faced here, about this whole world.

"Daemon," Jediah whispered in aghast horror, then he roared at the top of his voice for all to hear, "Daemon!"


	29. Chapter 29

**Captum Ante Chapter 29**

The gale battered at Arvael's face, blowing up out of nowhere, spawned in a single moment from nothing. It bore a bitter stink, a rancid stench, rich in sourness and spite. It was blowing from the crest of the hill, conjured into being by a single figure.

All around that form reality quivered in torment, struggling to reject the filth squatting in its midst. The ground trembled and the air howled, light bent around it and clouds spawned overhead. The few surviving mortal men ran screaming in insane terror at the sight, their bodies melting and spawning new and more hideous features. A few even combusted in flames, their flesh protesting at its vile presence.

Arvael's could barely believe what he was seeing, his eyes refusing to fixate upon what was set before him. The truth of the situation was undeniable though, a creature of the Warp had manifested, a thing that had no business existing in reality, setting foot upon this world. It was an abomination, a twisting of all that was good and true, a lie made fact. Even as a scout Arvael had heard tales of such horrors, the whispered names of things that Space Marines must face. This was a supreme mutator, a servant to the manipulator of destiny and a soldier of the architect of fate. This was a Lord of Change, a Neverborn: a Greater Daemon of Tzeentch.

Arvael gripped his Psy-dampener tightly, clinging to the repulsive thing as if it were a talisman against corruption. He was stood in the cupola of the Pride of Lujan and from here he could see the battle playing out, the desperate fight of Third Company against a single Daemon. From the Land Raider Arvael could see Captain Toran leading the attack, rallying his Company to fight as one. The air quivered as a hundred bolters fired in unison along with missiles, meltas, plasma and lascannon shots, all converging upon the Daemon. It was a force which had laid low cities and shattered armies but against this foe it proved worthless.

A shimmering psychic shield surrounded the Lord of Change, rippling like water amid the inferno. Again and again that shield bore the brunt of Third Company's wrath but it held firm and nothing could break through to touch the Daemon's form. The Neverborn opened its beak in a wide yawn and made a gesture with its staff, sending multi-hued flames out into the mass ranks of Space Marines.

The effect was more devastating than a barrage of earthshaker batteries. Ceramite bodies were blown apart by the kiss of the flames, a dozen proud Astartes slaughtered, each one exploding like a balloon of water under the Warp's caress. A few were merely grazed by the flames and they fared far worse, their bodies swelling and bursting from their armour, growing obscenely fat. Claws, tentacles and mouths erupted from their violated bodies and the new spawn went wild, running rampant among the packed ranks of the Storm Heralds.

Arvael gasped in shock as the Daemon laughed at its handiwork but Third Company wasn't done yet. Captain Toran led his finest Marines in a desperate charge, holding the Sword of Thiel aloft for all to see. With him went Chaplain Wrethan and the command squad, Brother Jediah among them. It was as heroic a charge as Arvael had ever seen, a few brave souls against the might of Chaos itself. It was noble, it was bold and it was utterly futile.

The Daemon chuckled as it drew back its wings and then flapped them frontward, creating a massive gust of wind. The brave heroes were picked up by that wind like leaves falling from trees and scattered helplessly away. Tumbling down the hill in a jumble of limbs and bodies. The greatest warriors of Third Company, reduced to sprawling drunkards.

Suddenly the Pride of Lujan moved beneath Arvael, engine revving as it charged up the hill with its Lascannons raised. Besides it a pair of Predators advanced, cannons already blazing. Arvael cheered aloud as the Lascannons fired, hitting the Daemon with force enough to chew up an armoured tank. Regrettably, it had as little an effect on the psychic shield as the rest of Third Company's efforts and the Daemon remained unharmed. The Pride of Lujan accelerated and fired again but to no effect and then the Neverborn responded.

The Daemon flicked a talon at them and a wave of flames swept down the hill. One Predator was hit by the mutating fire and collapsed in on itself, crushed into a tiny ball. The other was disassembled at the atomic level, becoming a cloud of diffuse particles that had once been plasteel, ceramite, promethium, skin, muscle and sinew. The effect on the Pride of Lujan however was more physical, making a psychic blaze erupt beneath it, throwing the tank up into the air.

Arvael was thrown from the cupola and hit the ground hard, rolling over and over. He came to halt just in time to see the Pride of Lujan crash down, psychedelic flames spilling out from its interior. He struggled up onto wobbly feet and staggered over, feeling no heat from the flames. In moments the inferno snapped out and he limped inside, finding a grizzly charnel house. The ceramite interior was untouched and pristine, even the engine was running smoothly but anything organic had been eviscerated. Every bulkhead was covered in a film of pink mist, a grotesque paint made from blood and bone. This was all that was left of the tank's driver and the Commander, Brother Tyreo.

Arvael sank down to his knees, fighting to hold back his despair. He could barely believe what he was witnessing, the death and destruction wrought upon a whole Company by a single Daemon. The devastation unleashed made him want to weep and the only thing holding back his tears was his Hypno-indoctrination, which demanded that he fight to the last regardless. He knew it was pointless though, the Daemon had taken everything they could throw at it and not even been scratched. The Storm Heralds would fight to the last but they would still die, laid low by the power of a Lord of Change.

It doesn't have to be this way; a tiny voice whispered in the back of his mind, you could still turn this around. Arvael knew it to be true, the power of the Warp ran through his mind and it may yet be the one thing that could affect the Neverborn, fighting fire with fire. Do it, the tiny voice cried, let slip your power. Bring forth kine shields to guard your fellows, smash the Daemon down with your might, rip it apart with sheer telekinetic power. All you have to do is open your mind, open yourself to the Warp and let it in.

Arvael cut off the thought with a cry of denial, he could not do it, he would not. He had sworn an oath to refrain from using his power and he would not break that vow even now. Everything had been taken from him, his position, his glory, his friends, his Company and soon his life too. He had lost it all, all save for the honour of his word, it was the only thing he had left.

You have to do it, the tiny voice screamed, you have no other choice. Arvael grimaced to himself; he was really starting to loathe that voice. That tiny whisper in his mind that cajoled and enticed his soul. He hated the way it constantly coaxed him to break his word, to do things he didn't want to and become someone he didn't want to become. It was base and unworthy, a disgraceful impetus that was unfit for an Astartes.

Hell, it didn't even sound like him.

Suddenly Arvael froze as a horrific realisation ran through him, a cold chill that gripped his soul and shivered down his spine. That voice, that tiny voice that had been in his head since he had set foot upon this world. He understood the reason that it didn't sound like him: because it wasn't his voice.

"Oh well done," rang the words in his head, "I was wondering if you were ever going to figure it out."

"Who are you?" whispered Arvael in horror.

The answer came, "Who am I? isn't it obvious, I am Harbinger, the Herald of Tzeentch."

"No," whispered Arvael wracked with dread, "You're in my head."

"Oh yes," chuckled Harbinger, "I have been with you Arvael since you first set foot upon this world, your constant companion and guide."

Arvael looked out of the gaping door of the Land Raider and saw the Daemon still wrecking carnage out upon the field of battle, slaying Astartes left and right. He couldn't help but ask, "But you're over there, how can you be here too?"

"That?" Harbinger replied smugly, "That is not my true self, that is but a vessel, a receptacle for my power and a poor one at that. It is nothing more than a puppet, my true-self resides in the Immaterium. The Psykers on this world have been my slaves for centuries, preparing the way for my arrival, but they should have known that Tzeentch is capricious, my master would never give them their promised reward. It was delicious tasting that fool Neadler's outrage as he realised that all his labours had been for nought."

"Why?" breathed Arvael, "Why have you done this?"

Harbinger laughed, "Because I can, because it amuses and nourishes me. This world has been my Petri-dish for centuries, my breeding ground for Psykers. I have a million potential hosts set before me, a million portals to the Warp, just waiting to open."

"A million portals," breathed Arvael as the scale of the threat dawned. "The Warp will inundate this planet, a new Daemon world will be born."

"One… why ever would I stop at just one?" retorted Harbinger, "The portals that will open here shall make Pythos look like a meagre postern gate. I will take a hundred worlds for my own, a thousand. I shall create a new Eye of Terror."

"Why are you telling me this?" questioned Arvael in shock.

Harbinger replied, "Because you can yet stop it Arvael, say the word and I will cease. All you have to do is agree to become my host."

"What?" barked Arvael, "Why?!"

"Change is the essence of my nature, "Harbinger replied, "Say the word and I will leave this world alone, I will spare your comrades and abandon all my plans. All I ask in return is your mind and your flesh."

Arvael was stunned by the trap he had been caught in; unless he did something he would be forced to watch helplessly as the Lord of Change ripped his Company apart. Noble Brothers would fall and die as a new hellscape spread across this world and beyond, even his whole Chapter would be consumed. Yet he could stop it, he could save everybody, all it would cost him was his life and his soul. However to set free a Daemon in the heart of his Chapter, unknown and unseen, in many ways that would be worse. The list of Chapters who had fallen into damnation may well grow by one. Could he do that, did he have the right to? Did he have the right not to?

Arvael was lost in indecision, unable to choose between two dread nightmares. All he could do was kneel there and watch the Daemon rampage through his brethren's ranks. Slowly his hand came up and he clasped the Psy-dampener, seeking guidance. Then he remembered Chaplain Wrethan's words, the proclamation made when he had first learned his true nature. The Chapter would be imperilled, the Chaplain had said, his kin would face certain doom. He had asked if Arvael's Brothers were dying and a Daemon offered him the power to save them, then could he say no. He had questioned whether Arvael possessed the will and the fortitude to resist.

"No," whispered Arvael then again louder this time, "No, I defy you, I will fight you until my last breath."

Harbinger sneered, "Then watch as I destroy your comrades and claim this world."

But Arvael wasn't listening, he rose to his feet and dashed from the Pride of Lujan. He began scouring the battlefield, turning over the bodies of the slain one by one. Then he found a dropped bolter and he picked it up.

"Arvael, what are you doing?" asked Harbinger.

"Weren't you listening," spat Arvael as he racked the action and chambered a Bolt round, "I told you: I am going to fight you."

Then he sprinted forwards into the battle, right into the mouth of hell.


	30. Chapter 30

**Captum Ante Chapter 30**

Thunder rolled and smoke spread everywhere, covering the battlefield in madness and calamity. Third Company was still fighting, throwing everything it had left at the Lord of Change but making no impression. Its Psychic shield was inviolable, nothing could touch it and in return it smote down Astartes left and right, killing Brothers three or four at a time.

In that madness Arvael dashed away from the Pride of Lujan, firing off bursts from his Bolter. It was a modest weapon but he was determined to make it count. He fired over and over at Harbinger's vessel but had no more success than anyone else. In his mind Harbinger chattered, tempting and demeaning him but he shut it out. The Daemon was a lie incarnate; he refused to pay it heed and recited the mantras Wrethan had taught him, closing his mind.

Suddenly there was a screech from above and a trio of Land Speeders went hurtling by, weapons blazing. They unleashed torrents of firepower and engulfed Harbinger in a storm of shells before they flashed past and raced away. The Lord of Change's psychic shield rippled and distorted under the barrage but it held firm and was not penetrated. Arvael grimaced in frustration, how much damage could that thing take?

Arvael glanced down at his meagre Bolter, its clip half-empty, and he felt how pathetic his attempts to harm Harbinger were. This was one of the mightiest of Daemons, a chief among the pantheon of ruin. Third Company had been outmatched from the moment it had arrived and it had been a fool's dream to think that he could harm it with a Bolter. He felt a great well of despair rising up within him, a hollowness of spirit that sapped his strength.

"Give up, let go and let me in," Harbinger cajoled. Arvael wasn't listening though, for his eyes were watching something else. Charging up the hill was the doughty figure of Chaplain Wrethan, his shining Crozius held high. It was the greatest thing Arvael had ever seen, one man running straight at a monster from the dawn of time. Trusting in nothing but faith and fury where guns and explosives had failed. Arvael stood amazed as the Chaplain bellowed, "Begone unholy fiend!"

Regrettably Harbinger merely clacked its beak in amusement; it raised one bejewelled hand and with theatrical slowness clicked its fingers. Even from over here Arvael could hear the unmistakable crack of Wrethan's left femur shattering, broken by raw Warp power. Arvael winced as he saw the Chaplain stagger, but the warrior refused to yield. He staggering onwards and Wrethan exclaimed, "I know no pain."

The Daemon paused, looking surprised by the Chaplain's defiance and once more it raised its hand. A click of its fingers and Wrethan's right femur shattered but the Chaplain took another laborious step and hollered, "I know no despair." Another snap of the fingers and Wrethan's knees were reduced to shards but the Chaplain pushed on shouting, "I know no darkness."

The Chaplain was held up now only by his armour, his leg bones nothing but broken razor blades' yet he would not yield. He tottered on and cried, "For He is with me." Another click and the Chaplain's ribs were cracked into a thousand pieces but Wrethan staggered on and fell through the psychic shield. He passed through it with ease, the living being by-passing it where bullets and bombs had failed. Wrethan lifted his Crozius and roared, "And I know no fear!"

It was the bravest thing Arvael had ever seen, the Chaplain had no hope of beating the Daemon but he refused to countenance defeat. He lurched at the monster, roaring his hatred and defiance. However the Neverborn merely cawed in contempt and snatched him up in one hand, lifting him up with its beak wide open, ready to bite off his head. Before he knew what he was doing Arvael was in motion, running before the Daemon and firing random shots. The rounds detonated on its shield and Arvael shouted, "No, here, over here! It's me you want!"

Harbinger paused as it saw Arvael; it lost interest in the Chaplain and dropped him in a heap as it strode over him. The Daemon stepped after Arvael, who dodged away firing random bolts to keep its attention. Arvael had no plan, no other idea than to keep the Daemon distracted. He ran and he fired, over and over, keeping the Neverborn chasing him. Then his bolter ran dry.

The Lord of Change cackled in delight as Arvael's weapon was exhausted and it laughed to see him desperately working the mechanism. The scout realised the futility of his actions and threw the weapon away. He knew that it had been foolish to challenge a Daemon with a meagre Bolter, he should have found something bigger. A lazy wave of the Daemon's staff and a ball of psychedelic fire sprang forth, hurtling right at the scout. Arvael frantically threw himself aside and barely got out of the way as it hit the ground, making the dirt seethe in a mad tide of change.

Arvael rolled over and over and came to rest in the mud. He lifted his head and saw Harbinger standing amid the carnage it had unleashed, but it seemed to have lost interest in him. Instead Harbinger lifted its arms and spread its wings wide, shrieking at the sky. The air around it heaved and quivered and a terrible wind blew up, blowing around it in an instant hurricane.

Somehow Arvael knew that Harbinger had bored of this battle and was preparing for the next phase of its plan. It would create a million portals to the Warp, breaking open a million unwary psyker's minds to let armies of Daemons spill forth. This world would be lost and then the whole sector, engulfed in a rabid tsunami of Neverborn. The Daemon threw back its vulture-like head and let out a shriek. It was more than just noise; it was an echo of the Warp itself, filled with the torment of a billion nightmares. The shriek swept over the battlefield in a wave, clawing at the Space Marines' minds and sanity. Astartes were trained to resist mental assaults, their minds hardened by repeated conditioning to withstand attack. Yet resistance and immunity were two very different things.

All over the battlefield Astartes were wracked by torment, psychic claws sinking into their minds to tear and gouge at their wills. They fought back as best they could but the Lord of Change was raw power incarnate and it broke down their defences with ease. All the over the battlefield Space Marines staggered like drunks, their vision swimming and limbs shaking. All of them were affected, all save for one: Arvael.

Arvael looked about, bewildered and confused. He felt a slight tingle over his skin but otherwise was unaffected. He didn't understand what was happening, why he alone was immune, then he looked down. Hanging around his neck was his Psy-dampener and he realised that its null-affect was shielding him. This little thing, this one tiny ward, was anathema to the Warp, to the essence of the Daemon itself and that gave him an idea. Arvael rose to his feet and looked for the nearest Initiate. He saw one staggering about, it was Brother Jediah and he was battering at his helm with his fists as if trying to drive the shriek out with his bare hands. Arvael dashed over to him and pulled free his Psy-dampener, he grabbed the Initiates' hand and slapped the ward into it. Instantly Jediah recovered, looking around in bewilderment saying, "What's happening?"

Arvael had no time to explain and uttered, "Harbinger is about to tear reality apart, we have to stop him. Take this and touch it to the Daemon's flesh, it will disrupt its power."

Jediah looked at the ward in his hand and said in confusion, "You want me to do what?"

Arvael shook his hand and barked, "Hit it with this."

He turned to dash away and Jediah called after him, "Where the hell are you going?"

Arvael shouted over his shoulder, "I'm going to go find a bigger gun!"

As he stepped away the power of the shriek washed over him but he gritted his teeth and staggered on. His whole life he had been subconsciously repressing his connection to the Warp and this, combined with the mantras Wrethan had taught him, let him continue. He felt like rusty nails were being driven into his skull but he refused to yield and wobbled from step to step looking for something, anything he could use. His eyes scoured the battlefield, taking in every detail then he saw what he needed and he smiled. The Pride of Lujan, sitting right where he had left it.

Arvael stumbled over to the Land Raider and ran into its open interior then threw himself into the commander's seat, grimacing at the putrid film covering everything. He wiped clean the pict-screens and pressed runes to rouse the Machine Spirit then slotted a vox-bead into his ear. The Pride of Lujan responded swiftly and its Spirit growled as the venerable machine powered its weapons, eager for the fight. Arvael peered at the Pict-screens and saw Jediah advancing upon the Lord of Change. He was bent over double, as if walking into a strong headwind and he held up the Psy-dampener before him like a shield.

The Greater Daemon was stood with its arms outstretched, still shrieking as it summoned the raw power of the Warp. The ground quivered and the skies swelled with black clouds as the Daemon's power surged but Jediah was undaunted and pressed on, taking one arduous step after another. Arvael gripped the targeting levers and trained the lascannons upon Harbinger as he watched Jediah march into hell. Closer and closer the Initiate came, each step a battle unto itself, then he passed through the Daemon's psychic shield. Jediah threw himself at the Lord of Change, holding the Psy-dampener out and over the vox came the Chapter's ancient battle-cry, "We are the Emperor's Storm!"

As the ward came into contact with the Daemon's flesh reality blinked. The Lord of Change's shriek went from one of triumph and cruelty to one of shock and woe. The Psy-dampener was anathema to its very nature, interfering with its connection to the Warp. This tiny little ward could not hope to hamper the Daemon's power for more than a moment, but one second was all they needed and for an instant the Psychic shield blinked out. Arvael squeezed the triggers as he growled, "We are His wrath."

The Pride of Lujan roared as its weapons discharged, four godhammer pattern Lascannons firing beams of coherent light at their target. Travelling at the speed of light the beams struck Harbinger dead on, punching into its chest with devastating might. Power that could have obliterated a tank and crippled a Baneblade smote the Daemon's heart, ripping it apart. Unholy flesh parted and etheric sinews were snapped under the killing power as the Lascannons neatly sliced the Daemon into two halves.

Silence fell as reality rearranged itself, the wind stilled and the ground stopped shaking. The skies cleared and the shriek fell away into nothing. Then with inevitable ponderousness Harbinger collapsed into two halves and lay still.

A ghastly mist arose as its flesh began to dissolve, the physical vessel evaporating as its Daemonic essence was banished back into the Warp. Arvael heard a diminishing cry in his mind, "Noooo, it's gone, my vessel… my new world. You'll pay for this, all of you; your whole pathetic Chapter will pay!"

Arvael shut his mind to Harbinger's threats; he would suffer no more trespasses. Slowly he climbed out of his seat and staggered to the ramp, looking out at the battlefield beyond. Everywhere Astartes were picking themselves up and looking about in confusion. There was no cheering, the battle had been too harrowing and the foe too infernal for any celebration. Arvael saw Brother Jediah staggering away from the ashes of Harbinger, battered but alive. Then Arvael saw Chaplain Wrethan headed this way, being half-carried by Apothecary Memnos. The Chaplain called out, "Who fired that shot, who banished the Daemon?"

Arvael waved a hand from the ramp and Apothecary Memnos gasped, "You, a mere novice, taking down a Greater Daemon?"

Wrethan seemed equally baffled and said, "By the Throne, what gave you this idea?"

"You did Father Wrethan," Arvael explained, "It turns out you were right all along; I should have stayed in the Land Raider."


	31. Chapter 31

**Captum Ante Chapter 31**

Smoke rose from the remains of the battlefield, clouds of ashes and debris climbing from the lingering fires and spent ordnance. Overhead black birds circled, waiting to feast on the dead and of those there were many. Piles of bodies were stacked everywhere while the Storm Heralds cleared the battlefield.

The honoured dead were sorted from the hated corpses of dead locals, which were covered in rampant mutations. These were piled in great heaps and incinerated in promethium flames. The Daemonic had touched this world and no evidence of that could be allowed to remain. Here and there a lone Sturmtruppe was found, still raving and lashing out. These were put down with swift barks of bolt pistols; there would be no mercy for the likes of them.

Amid all that Arvael sat on a rock, picking at the moss that covered it. He was sitting with nothing to do as the Initiates worked. It was unusual for him, he typically was kept busy at all times but right now he had been left to his own devices. He could see various Brothers going about their business, but more than a few would incrementally nod their heads at him, acknowledging his deeds. It was sparse glory compared to that which had been heaped upon Brother Jediah, but it was more than Arvael had seen since his nature had been uncovered. Arvael sighed, it seemed such was the lot in life for a Librarian, despite all that they could do they would never be wholly trusted or liked. Then he thought about what had happened this day and he reflected that his Brothers were probably wise to reville Psykers. He shuddered to think about how close he had come to disaster, to what he had almost unwittingly let into his soul.

Arvael looked down at his chest, where his Psy-dampener hung. It had been returned to him and been made clear that wearing it was absolutely non-negotiable. Arvael had confessed everything to Chaplain Wrethan, absolutely everything including the voice of Harbinger, and he felt fortunate not to have instantly received a bolt-round to the head. The dampener still made his skin crawl to touch but right now he would not be parted from it. He had no idea how long a banished Daemon took to return but he was in no hurry to find out, if he never heard from Harbinger again then he would be pleased.

Arvael was disturbed from his musings by the scuff of an armoured boot; he glanced back and was surprised to see the form of Brother Jediah approaching. The Initiate had his helm off and he looked battered but hale. Yet there was a curious hesitancy about him, like he didn't know how to say what he wanted. Jediah glanced away and commented, " Looks like they found a live one."

Arvael looked and saw Initiates dragging a breathing local and before throwing him to ground. A mortal man in dark power amour approached, the 'I' on his chest declaring it to be Inquisitor Zerban. The Inquisitor had been typically absent during the fighting but had crawled out from whatever rock he had been hiding under under when things had calmed down. Even as Arvael watched the Inquisitor drew a las-pistol and shot the local in the head.

Arvael blinked and said, "What is he doing?"

Jediah explained, "These mortals have seen too much, they have laid eyes upon a Daemon. The Inquisition will not let that stand, they will execute anyone who knows of the existence of Chaos. This whole world if necessary, they would mind-wipe us too if they thought that they could get away with it."

Arvael wanted to protest but he could not; he knew all too well how corrupting Chaos could be. Instead he said, "I wish Fiett could have been here and the others."

Jediah shook his head and declared, "Forget them, they are the past, you need to look to the future. Fiett has his own path to walk, it is doubtful you will see him again."

Arvael was disappointed but persisted, "Where is Chaplain Wrethan?"

Jediah answered, "Shipped back into orbit with the wounded, not that there were many of those. Casualties were heavy; thirty-seven Brothers were killed in this battle."

Arvael gasped, that was over a third of the Company. He swallowed and said, "A terrible loss."

Jediah shook his head and explained, "Against a Greater Daemon that is light. We almost lost everything today but thanks to you disaster was averted. Everybody knows what you did, they may not say it aloud but they are grateful for your deeds. Well… everybody save Sergeant Mylos, he's being a sullen wretch about absolutely everything, but that's not your fault."

Jediah seemed to be unusually talkative and Arvael had the impression that he was dancing around an issue. He didn't know how to press the matter so changed the subject by saying, "What's happening over there?"

Jediah looked over to where a party of Astartes were confronting Inquisitor Zerban. It was Captain Toran and the rest of the command squad along with Apothecary Memnos. They were standing over the body of a local in a blue uniform, an older man with grey hair. Jediah said, "That's the local's Kommandant, we'd better go see what's happening."

He set off and Arvael jogged after him, skipping to keep up with the Initiates' long strides. As they approached they heard the Captain speaking coldly to Zerban saying, "I am sorry Inquisitor but I cannot allow you to execute this one."

Zerban looked furious and gripped his pistol tightly as he said, "Do not stand in my way, there can be no exceptions."

Toran shook his head and curiously clicked his vox twice, then he said, "I need this one breathing, he appears to be the senior commander here. Only he can order the surrender of the local's armies. My orders are to bring this world into the Imperial fold intact and to do that I need him alive."

Zerban growled, "You cannot allow a corrupted individual to live."

From the dirt Memnos was checking over the Kommander and said, "No evidence of mutation, don't ask me how. He appears to be badly concussed, I think he was unconscious the whole time, he didn't see a thing."

"Many rituals require an observer, one uncorrupted soul to bear witness," Zerban conceded, "but it is still a risk, you don't know what he has been exposed to."

"Let us find out then," declared Toran.

Memnos applied a mild stimulant and Renhardt woke up, he looked groggily about and seemed confused by the presence of the Space Marines. It took him a minute to clear his head but then he woozily said, "I see we lost then."

Zerban leaned in and said, "What do you remember?"

Renhardt replied, "There was fighting and destruction, you lot were just taking us apart. Then Neadler, he... he went mad… yes he just lost it and began attacking us. The Strumtruppes all did too… then I don't remember anything."

Toran stepped in and declared, "Your Psyker betrayed you; he turned on your men and on your nation. His power drove him mad, he went insane and killed your army. There are no other survivors."

Renhardt sighed and said, "I knew we shouldn't have depended upon them, Nordlund was supposed to be a culture of reason but we tolerated their mysticism. It was rank hypocrisy; I wish we had never trusted them."

Toran nodded and said, "A problem still to be resolved, there are many more Psykers out there. The Imperium will require them to be rounded up as part of the surrender."

"Surrender?" said Renhardt sharply but to Arvael's ear it wasn't defiance it sounded more like relief. The Kommandant said with a mote of hope, "Can I do that?"

Toran nodded but Zerban sounded angry as he spat, "No you can't, the Inquisition demands a full purge!"

Renhardt broke in to say, "Herrs, I don't know your intent but I know of your power. I've seen your armies in action, we never stood a chance. Resistance now will only get more innocent boys slaughtered, let me give the order to surrender, let this war end. Hell if you round up the P.I.A. and take them away for us I will let you parade me around for everyone to see, to come and see the Marshall who surrendered."

Arvael couldn't understand that and said, "Why would you do that?"

Renhardt sighed and said, "I'm an old man, I've done my soldiering. I'm tired of living under the threat of atomonic annihilation; I'm tired of feeding boys into the meat grinder for the sake of a politician's pride. All I want is to go home and spend whatever time I have left with my grandchildren, who can live in peace for a change."

Toran nodded and said, "Go with these Brothers, we will discuss the terms of your surrender shortly."

Renhardt was led away by the command squad but Zerban spat, "You can't do this, you cannot stop the Inquisition from purging this world."

Toran laughed at that, actually laughed, and said, "Stop you? We don't want to stop you; we are offering to help you. The Storm Heralds will lead your strikes to round up the Psykers."

Arvael was confused, it sounded like Zerban was getting exactly what he wanted but he looked angrier than ever. Then it dawned, by leading the strikes the Storm Heralds could contain the purge, keep it limited to the Psykers alone. They could preserve this world and the bulk of its people.

Zerban 's grip on his las-pistol whitened and he spat, "Why would I ever accept your help?!"

Jediah leaned in and growled, "Because there are no witnesses here."

Zerban glanced about in surprise and was shocked to see that while they had been talking the squads had closed in, summoned by the Captain's vox click earlier. Zerban was currently stood inside a ring of loaded bolters, wielded by scores of Transhumans who would obey any order given to them. Arvael practically saw the realization creep over Zerban that the Storm Heralds could kill him right now and invent whatever story they wanted. All the Inquisition would hear would be tales of how Zerban laid down his life in glorious battle. Everybody also knew that the Ordo's hated him so much that there would be nothing more than the most cursory checking of the facts.

Zerban grimaced and then stormed off in a huff while Toran strolled in the other direction, preparing to accept the surrender of this world. Arvael watched them go then said, "We haven't heard the last of this."

Memnos said sadly, "That Kommandant better make the most of his time with his family. I suspect the Inquisition will arrange a 'heart attack' for him as soon as our eyes are elsewhere."

Arvael shook his head and said, "The things I have seen today. It makes me shudder to think how close we came, I was lucky not to be corrupted."

Jediah turned and spat, "Forget luck, we have no use for it. You beat the Daemon because you were strong, you were fierce and you were ruthless. You will need that fire if you are to become who you need to be."

Arvael was surprised by the frank admission and asked, "What are you saying?"

Memnos explained, "The training of a Librarian is arduous and filled with peril, yet today you showed true courage and determination. You may have what it takes to endure and become a Librarian."

Arvael was stunned by the candid admission and said, "I thank you both, I would like to return to Third Company someday."

Then Jediah did something totally unexpected, he extended his hand and said, "You saved my life today, you saved all our lives. You are strong indeed and I am honoured to have fought beside you."

Arvael was stunned and took the hand saying, "I am privileged to have known you."

Jediah declared, "Go learn what you have to, then return to Third Company as a proper Librarian." Then Jediah turned and marched away leaving the youth dumbfounded.

Memnos leaned over and said, "That's the warmest thing I've ever heard him say."

Arvael swallowed and said, "So now what?"

Memnos chuckled and replied, "Now you can come and help me prepare the honoured dead for transport. Worry about otherworldly matters tomorrow, today you can get your hands dirty."

Arvael smiled, that sounded good to him. He set off after Apothecary Memnos, content for now and hopeful for the future. Challenges lay ahead but he was confident that he would overcome them. He was resolute that he would rise to become a Librarian and return to his Brothers someday.

 _To be continued_


	32. Chapter 32

_Presenting a teaser for an upcoming story: Domus Discordia_

 **Somewhere Somewhen**

The chamber was dark and close, a tiny little alcove tucked away where no one would think to look. Lighting was provided by wax candles alone, no lumen orbs were allowed here, nothing that could hide a vox-thief or picter was allowed. It was a cramped space, barely big enough to fit a table and chairs along with the Transhuman beings occupying them.

This small space was located deep underground, buried far below the Fortress Monastery of the Storm Heralds. That mighty stronghold was still in the process of being rebuilt, having been devastated years earlier by the accursed foe Vorshaan. Yet now a new bastion was rising, a new future for the Storm Heralds. In many ways that was the reason these Transhumans were meeting, to determine a new future for their Chapter. Sitting at the table was the scarred and grizzled form of Chief Apothecary Lessall. He was sat quietly, musing upon the upcoming meeting, planning what he was going to say. He was dressed in plain blue robes, armour would send entirely the wrong message at this time.

To his right sat High Chaplain Sammect, Master of Sanctity and leader of the cult of Emperor Worship. Lessall found Sammect to be a blinkered zealot, far too enamoured of religious dogma. Yet his conviction that this gave him license to do as he will, and by extension the Storm Heralds, was useful to the Chief Apothecary. To Lessall's left sat Fourth Captain Jossat in a blue robe, he was a driven and ambitious officer with a lust for greatness. Lessall knew that Jossat paid lip service to the Emperor Worship but in truth, his heart had room only for his own advancement. A useful trait Lessall had harnessed, but his ambition could be as problematic as it was valuable.

Lessall himself found such morals to be petty and weak, but it was what it was. He had a mission to complete, to drag the Storm Heralds onto a new path and he needed allies to do that. Lessall had seen the rot and corruption of the Imperium, the stifling restrictions imposed by the Lex Imperialis and he was determined to break his Chapter away from such stagnation, by any means necessary. Sadly this was in direct opposition to Chapter Master Gorgall's views, the moderate leader believing in co-operation with Imperial institutions and obedience to Imperial Law.

Lessall had to break that resistance, he had to drag the Storm Heralds kicking and screaming into a new future. His Chapter would not be crushed into dust or made Terra's lapdogs while he drew breath.

His thoughts were interrupted by a knock at the door. He watched as the door opened to reveal a party of Marines. First was Fifth Captain Tygra, a diffident and sycophantic officer sworn to the cause. Lessall had pushed hard to appoint him to his post. Tygra nodded in respect and then stepped aside, allowing their guests to enter.

First was Seventh Captain Maxitio, a haughty and straight-laced officer, obsessed with protocols. He was followed by Sixth Captain Erathor, whose arrogance knew no bounds. Next was Eighth Captain Hakulo, a fierce and aggressive officer, a native of the feral secondary-recruiting world Trux, and he retained that savagery as if it was a mark of honour. Last in was Tenth Captain Judio, master of recruits and the greatest influence on the Chapter's youths, his support would be essential in what was to come.

It was exceedingly rare to have this many Captains home at once, which was why Lessall had to make his move now. The guests blinked in surprise to see who was waiting for them but they took their seats in silence. Lessall waited for them to be settled then said, "Brothers, thank you for coming, I am moved that you agreed to meet."

Maxitio cleared his throat and said, "This is most irregular, meeting in secret like this."

Judio agreed, "You had better have a good reason for this meeting, all this has the stink of the clandestine about it."

Lessall grimaced to himself, these two would be hard to win over. He drew in a breath and said, "We had to meet here, there are matters of great import to discuss. I have to tell you dire news: the Great Beast has come, Ghazghkull Mag Uruk Thraka has set foot upon Armageddon. But that is not all, worse news has come from Cadia: the Despoiler is on the move, the 13th Black Crusade has begun."

That drew gasps from all, and Hakulo exclaimed, "This is dire news, why weren't we told?"

Lessall replied, "Because missives have come from Terra, we are requested to remain here. Gorgall intends to keep us close to home."

Everyone looked horrified at that and Erathor cried, "What, we are not to engage the foe directly, how can this stand?"

Lessall snarled angrily, "Because Gorgall is too spineless to defy the High Lords, he seeks... co-operation."

Maxitio however objected, "From a strategic standpoint it does make sense. The Saint Karyl Trail is a critical warp-route, an essential supply line for the flow of whole armies and billions of weapons from the galactic south. Keeping this route open could change the course of countless wars, more than we could ever hope to affect even with every bolter we have ."

Sammect leaned in and growled, "The Divine Emperor commands we face his enemies, not kowtow to petty clerks."

Dammit, Lessall thought to himself, keep the religious doggerel out of this. Aloud he said, "Gorgall is leading us to disaster, look where his policies of moderation have got us. How many Brothers have fallen in the last few years? First Company is at half-strength and Captains Dassa, Laryen and Athead are lost to us. The High Lords and their blasted Lex Imperalis have become a chain around our necks, a rotten carcass weighing us down. If we continue like this the Storm Heralds will be ground down to dust by their conniving ways!"

Hakulo said half-heartedly, "Casualties are inevitable."

Yet Jossat remarked, "But look at who Gorgall favours: Captains Phalros and Toran."

That drew scowls from all around and Erathor spat, "Toran, an arrogant glory hog, promoted well above his capability. If he didn't hold the Sword of Thiel he would have remained a complete nobody."

Hakulo agreed, "I have seen him in the training cages, his bladework is distinctly average. He would not fare well if he faced me in a duel."

Even Maxitio said, "His application of the Codex Astartes is sorely lacking, he has a troubling tendency to innovate."

Maxitio made that last word sound like a curse and Tygra played upon the sentiment saying, "The post of First Captain has been left vacant for six long years. Is it not obvious who Gorgall is grooming for the role?"

Lessall wanted to slap Tygra, he risked overplaying his hand but surprisingly the others seemed to agree. Erathor spat, "Toran, become Gorgall's heir? First Captain Toran… over my dead body."

Angry mutters broke out and Lessall was pleased by the result but Judio spoke up to say, "Toran is young and ambitious but he has served well. He led the charge at Angle's Redoubt; he defended the Fortress Monastery against impossible odds. Vorshaan would have obliterated our home without Toran's stalwart defence."

Lessall was not troubled by that objection for he decided the time had come to play his trump card. He drew in a breath and pronounced, "There is something you should all know about Vorshaan, about how he entered the Monastery. The defences were lowered for him by a Traitor within our own ranks, one Halis Paur, of Toran's own squad."

Shocked stares and dropped jaws greeted that, expressions of horror spreading over every face as the information sank in. Long seconds passed and then Hakulo whispered, "A traitor in our ranks. Toran had a traitor standing by his side for years and he did not know?!"

Lessall nodded but Erathor's eyes narrowed and he said, "Gorgall knows of this?"

Lessall replied, "Yes and he swore everyone to silence, but I cannot bear it any longer. Gorgall is leading us to disaster, he must be stopped."

"How?" asked Hakulo with a suspicious tone, "Gorgall is Chapter Master, his word is law. Toran is his favourite, what can we here do to stop them?"

It was then that Sammect leaned in and growled, "Gorgall won't live forever. Perhaps the time has come to consider more radical options."

Silence fell at that pronouncement, an overwhelming sense of the weight of the implication being made. Everyone felt the significance of this moment, the weight of destiny pressing down upon them and they knew whatever was said next would shape the days to come. The pregnant moment stretched out for an eternity but then there was the loud a scrape of a chair moving and everyone at the table saw Maxitio rising to his feet. He had an angry look upon his face and he snarled, "I will hear no more of this."

Tygra spoke up to say, "Don't be hasty, there is yet more to say."

"You speak of murder most foul," Maxitio spat looking furious, "This is treason and heresy, I will play no part in it."

Sammect stated sternly, "Be certain of your choice, lines are being drawn and forces are already in motion."

Maxitio answered contemptuously, "If lines are indeed being drawn, then I am proud to be on the opposite side of wherever you stand."

There was the scrape of another chair and Judio also stood up. He looked about and said, "I am with Maxitio, you all claim to be warriors but you speak like cutthroats planning a crime. You decry the High Lords for their conniving ways but look at yourselves, plotting murder in the dark."

Lessall was worried by this development, he needed all these Captains on his side and he tried to placate them saying, "Brothers, this is but a quiet word between friends, I assure you nothing untoward is being planned here. We will not be the first to spill blood."

Unfortunately, Jossat chose that moment to say, "Don't be fools, the galaxy is turning against Gorgall and his ilk. Don't be on the wrong side of history."

Lessall gritted his teeth, with allies like this who needed enemies. Maxitio seemed to feel the same as he declared, "If history is indeed moving around us then I will stand my ground. I would die for the peerless honour of the Storm Heralds, the principles we stand for: loyalty, integrity, humble service and the protection of the Emperor's realm. You have forgotten these things, you seek only self-aggrandisement."

With that he turned and marched from the room, banging the door behind him. Judio followed but paused at the door and said, "For the sake of our previous Brotherhood I will do my best to forget this conversation. I suggest you all do the same." Then he too walked out, leaving the rest behind in shadows.

The remainder sat there in silence, pondering upon those words, but then Erathor ran a hand over his face and declared, "So… the lines are drawn and the players accounted for. At least we know where everybody stands."

"Do we?" asked Hakulo, "What are we planning here, how far are we willing to go? What exactly has Gorgall done to earn such enmity?"

Sammect replied, "We could tell you much, of his compromises, of his weak kowtowing to the High Lords. Yet from our lips such words would sound trite and manipulative, so we do not ask you to trust us. We shall have you hear the truth from one of his own followers."

Erathor and Hakulo looked confused by that but then the door opened once more and another Astartes stepped into the chamber. This one was no Captain though; this was a Sergeant, in the heraldry of Third Company. The Sergeant walked on an augmetic leg and had his helm tucked under his arm, which bore the transverse crest of a marksman's laurels.

Hakulo looked confused and said, "What is going on, who is this?"

Lessall smiled to himself and replied, "Young Captain Toran does not take good care of his men, there is much resentment within his ranks. This Sergeant has had enough; he recognizes the course destiny is taking. He has volunteered to provide us with information on exactly what is occurring with Gorgall and his followers. Now Sergeant Mylos... what do you have to tell us?"

Then the door slid shut, leaving the conspirators in darkness.


	33. Chapter 33

**Captum Ante Chapter 32**

 _*One Year Later*_

The decision lay before him, the choice he knew that he could not avoid. It was a difficult determination, so many possibilities, so many permutations to balance; the outcomes seemed to be nigh infinite. He tried to weigh the various options but they all seemed equally valid, none of them better than any other. He had attempted to make the right choice many times before and met failure each time but there was no way to back down, he would just have to try again.

These thoughts passed through his mind as he sat cross-legged upon the rough mat, wearing only a short plain robe, with his hands laid palm up in his lap. His name was Arvael and he was an acolyte of the Storm Heralds, a Librarian-in-training. He was aspiring to reach the rank of Lexicanium but at the present rate that seemed a distant hope. Still he would not give up on his goal; it was not in his nature to relent.

Before him was a low table of polished wood and on the other side was his opponent. Sitting there calm and aloof, making no signs or indications to help him. Arvael tried to probe his mind with Psychic senses, as he had been taught but hit a brick wall. His opponent was far superior to him in raw power, talent, training and experience: there would be no cheating here. Arvael sighed and reached out once more, groping in the dark for the elusive future.

Then Arvael drew in a breath and declared, "I see the seven of Cups."

His opponent sighed and picked up a random card from the table before him and stated icily, "Five of Spears."

Arvael threw up his eyes at the stars visible through the armourglass dome overhead and groaned loudly, expressing his exasperation at yet another failure. His opponent calmly gathered up the cards on the table and said, "Again."

Arvael rubbed his tired eyes and said, "What's the point we've done this over and over, for months now. I just don't have the knack."

His opponent began shuffling the cards and remarked, "It is peculiar, statistically speaking you should have got at least one right by now. Still we must persist; you need to explore all your talents."

Arvael looked at the Space Marine opposite him and knew they were a study in contrasts; whereas he was young and unscarred the other was aged and haggard. He too was wearing a short robe but where Arvael's implants were still raw and his Black Carapace still hadn't fully hardened this one bore numerous old scars and that weathered appearance Astartes gain as they age. The real difference between them was the look in his eyes, a testament to horrors beyond the comprehension of most men, even Space Marines. A litany of otherworldly battles that would scour the sanity from all but the hardiest of souls.

He was Chief Librarian Echeb, keeper of the Seven Seals, guardian of the Porta Infernale, custodian of the Bibliotheca Damnatorum and holder of the Oculus Infinitum. He was the Spirit of the Storm, the Chapter's Psykanna Primus, the right-hand man to the Chapter Master and also Arvael's mentor.

Arvael rubbed some feeling back into his bare legs and said, "Maybe my power just doesn't work like that, I see what is not what will be."

Echeb commented coolly, "I seem to remember similar words when you first came to us."

That made Arvael pause for it was true. When he had come to the Librarian's tower, little over a year ago, (was it really that short a time), he had struggled to master his potential. He had learned that there were five disciplines of the Psyker and that not all were equally talented in every regard.

Arvael had some rude skill as a Pyromancer, agitating molecules came easily to him and he could light a candle from across a room now. Telepathy had proved a harder struggle for him, thoughts and memories were such elusive things, but he had managed to learn the basics of sending messages and reading surface thoughts.

Unfortunately his attempts at Biomancy had been a spectacular failure, the trillions of chemical reactions and biological processes that made up life were beyond his ability to predict and control. His attempts to manipulate the flesh of laboratory vermin had been somewhat… explosive and extremely messy.

Now he was struggling to grasp the nuances of precognition, the ability to see the future. It was proving extremely difficult; the billions of potential outcomes to the smallest of acts were beyond him. He could see every particle that made up the cards but predicting their next movement baffled him. It was like the more he knew of an atom's position the less he knew of its momentum.

Where Arvael's talents truly lay were in the physical. His gift was to reach out and touch the material world, to grasp objects, not movements or processes. His skills as a Telekine were growing in leaps and bounds and now he could move great heavy objects with but a thought or lift a single grain of sand. He could form kine shields or channel great force into blows from his weapons, he could read a book without even opening it and see the auras all souls project. Yet his favourite training exercise of all was to slip his mind out of his body and send his vision across great distances. Exploring the Storm Herald's fortress-monastery end to end, watching the Initiates and serfs go about their business, unknowing that his sight was upon them

Arvael looked at Echeb and asked, "My Master, why do I need to train in this discipline? It is clear I am a feeble clairvoyant, shouldn't I be focussing my talent on what I am good at?"

Echeb eyed his acolyte and put his deck of cards down then he said, "You cannot ignore your connection to the Warp anymore than you can ignore being on fire. You must explore your potential and every aspect of your abilities. Just as important as knowing what you can do, is knowing what you can't do. Lest the temptation to exceed your limits pulls you into damnation."

Arvael nodded at that, he knew all too well that craving. When he was first discovered to possess the power a Daemon had tried to seduce him with offers of more power. He still shuddered to think how close his untrained soul had come, even now with rigorous mental training he wouldn't fancy seeing that particular Daemon again.

Arvael accepted this and said, "I understand my Master, I will try to do better."

"Trying is but an excuse for failure, you must be better," Echeb rebuked him as he opened a drawer in the desk and picked up a parchment, "Speaking of which I have a report here from Adept Fargo, your ethics teacher…"

Arvael felt his stomach sink and experienced that terrible dread every student in the galaxy knew when a teacher read aloud from a report about them. Echeb read out, "Your essay, 'Explaining the reasons why the use of force to impose Imperial rule on non-compliant worlds is just and righteous' was not good enough. You will have to repeat the assignment."

Arvael's shoulders sank and he said, "My Master I do not understand the question. The Emperor has decreed that all humanity should dwell within His dominions, what more justification does any Astartes need than that?"

"Then you should have told Adept Fargo that," Echeb snapped. Then he sighed and said, "That is Initiate thinking, a Librarian must see more. Chaplains give purpose to our Brother's lives, but we must provide perspective. It is not enough to fight, you must grasp why we fight, the principles that underpin our every action."

Arvael knew he wasn't going to weasel out of this and said, "Yes, my master."

Echeb mused, "I have a book that might help you, Uthred Harriman's writings from M.36, 'The One Hundred and Fifteen Benefits Of Living Under The Benevolent Emperor's Virtuous Rule'."

Echeb stood up and walked over to the other side of his apartment, as one might expect it was a hoarder's trove of artefacts and scrolls. Strange devices sat on plinths with rare and exotic specimens of stuffed animals hanging from the ceiling. Bookshelves lined the walls, packed to the brim and stuffed full of scrolls. Yet nothing was untidy or cluttered, everything was in its proper place and perfectly aligned, the sign of a disciplined and precise mind.

Arvael had spent countless hours here, training and meditating under the armourglass dome, learning to harness his powers and also hone his intellect. The Psychic training had frankly been easier than struggling to understand ancient scholar's rambling philosophies and endless lectures on the structure of Imperial government. Why Echeb seemed to think he needed to know about the intricacies of the Departmento Munitorum's supply and requisition procedures was beyond him.

Echeb walked over to a bookcase and pulled out a thick tome, bound in leather. Arvael could have scanned it from here with his sixth sense but Echeb's own sixth sense was sharp indeed and he had caught the lad sneaking a peek at his private library once. Arvael had swiftly learned to not to repeat that error and would not dare to attempt it again.

As Echeb walked back Arvael observed his aura. Every Psyker perceived the universe differently, just as they manifested their powers differently and Arvael's mind presented auras as geography, a landscape representation of person's spirit and disposition. To Arvael the Chief Librarian resembled a bluff crag on a bleak coast in the middle of a storm, one beaten and battered by pounding waves and raging winds. There was great power there but the crag was unmoved, firm and resilient in the face of a malevolent universe. This was Echeb's soul: uncompromising, unforgiving and unyielding.

Echeb sat down and presented the book saying, "Read this, the normal way mind you and redo your essay. You have two days."

"Yes my Master," Arvael said taking the book.

At that point there was a discrete cough from the door, a small noise lacking the depth and timbre of the Transhuman. It was mortal noise and that meant there was only one person it could be, there was only one who dared to enter Echeb's apartment unannounced. Arvael glanced behind him and sure enough saw Caius standing there, the Chief Librarian's personal equerry.

Echeb looked over and said, "Caius, what is it?"

Caius replied, "Forgive the intrusion but there is an urgent matter requiring your immediate attention."

Echeb nodded and said, "Very well, Arvael you are dismissed, go find the other acolytes and don't neglect your essay."

Arvael stood up and bowed saying, "Yes my Master."

As he departed he approached Caius and as he did so he looked the mortal over. The man was supposed to be a Chapter Serf but he was a most unusual one. He was well-built and in robust health, with a strong back and the tell-tale marks of repeated juvenant work. His hands were calloused but not from quill-marks or an artificer's tools, no his hands bore the scars that spoke of a lifetime spent handling weaponry.

His head was held high and his movements were sharp and confident, not at all submissive or meek, as most serfs were around their transhuman masters. There was a fierce air about him, a confidence that shone through, even though he was surrounded on a daily basis by gene-forged warriors who could snap him in half.

Arvael scanned his aura as they passed and found not a trace of psychic power but he had certainly been trained to resist mental probes. His soul was like a damp moor on a foggy night, all suggested shapes and implied forms but with nothing certain. One could never be sure where one stood with this man.

Arvael left them behind as he stepped out the portal and began descending a stone stairwell, heading down the Librarian's tower towards the Acolyte's dormitory. Behind him a black door slammed closed, sealing Echeb and Caius inside and Arvael felt impenetrable psychic wards triggering around the entire apartment. Not for the first time he wondered what the pair of them talked about that required such inscrutable privacy.

Then he put it from his mind, if the Chief Librarian felt he needed to know then he would be told. Meanwhile he had an essay to write and besides he was sure whatever the matter was it wouldn't affect him.


	34. Chapter 34

**Captum Ante Chapter 33**

The stairwell fell away before him, dimly lit by lumen orbs. Each step bore traces of ancient embellishments, faded script carved into the rock millennia before. But whatever had been inscribed was now illegible, worn smooth by millennia of passing feet that had left deep grooves in the rock.

It was a long descent as the tiny stairwell sank into the heart of the Librarian's tower but a necessary one. All around were layers upon layers of defences, psychic wards, telepathic baffles and etheric levies to capture run off energies. When it came to the Warp the Imperium did not believe there was such a thing as being too cautious.

Arvael thought upon this as he descended, marking out the steps and trying not to dwell on the fact that he knew there was a Grav-lift available. Tradition demanded all supplicants to the Chief Librarian came on foot and he was not going to argue with tradition. Soon he emerged onto an empty floor, one that was ringed with apartments. Each one was smaller than the Chief Librarian's but still spacious and well appointed.

These were the chambers of the initiated Librarians, the Epsitolarys, Codiciers and Lexicaniums whose ranks Arvael aspired to join. It was notable that there were only a score of doors here and most of them were darkened. The Storm Heralds had never been overly blessed with Psykers and recent wars had taken their toll. Three veterans Librarians had fallen in the recent invasion of their Fortress-Monastery and yet more in the gruelling battles against the Tyranid menace. Currently the Storm Heralds boasted only seven Librarians and most of those were presently campaigning off-world.

Arvael hurriedly crossed the space, treading softly as he walked on the cold flagstones and crossed onto another stair. He headed down again and emerged into the great Librarium. It was a huge complex, floor after floor of shelves and data-readers. There were winding corridors of books and data-crystals, long avenues of scrolls and mneno-slates. Hundreds of tiny nooks and crannies were separated by swinging doors that were also bookshelves. Whoever the architect was, he had been a teasing soul. There were odd corners and switch-backs among the shelves, branching junctions and hidden cul-de-sacs turning the whole place into a maze.

One could spend weeks here and just when you thought you had seen everything a bookshelf-door would move to reveal a hidden room that you would swear had not been there before. Arvael had spent many a day here, grappling with esoteric lore and once had even been surprised to find himself lost among the shelves and stumbling upon the secret prize of the whole collection. In a glimmering stasis field set at the heart of the maze he had found a revered copy of the Codex Astartes, the very one that had been presented to the Storm Heralds at their founding.

Arvael had gone looking for it again later but had been unable to retrace his steps. There was something wrong about that; Astartes had eidetic memories, it should be impossible for them to get lost. In fact Arvael suspected there was something off about the whole Librarian's tower, the calendars said he had been here a year but he possessed clear memories of many more days than that. He was sure if he added up all the days he could recall then he would find that he had been here several years, if not more.

All in all the library was an impressive collection and this was just the common reading, the material deemed fit for public display. The truly dangerous lore was sealed in dungeons far below the island home of the Storm Heralds. Tomes so heretical and tainted that they were locked behind the gates of the dreaded Bibliotheca Damnatorum. Arvael had been there, under supervision, and found it to be an unnerving and unsettling place and that was coming from a warrior of the Adeptus Astartes.

Arvael pressed onwards, heading down again and passed the chambers of the Astropathic choir, the heart of the Chapter's interstellar communications. Here blind Astropaths scoured the Empyrean for information, catching messages from far and wide. They were surrounded at all times by teams of serf Lex-savants bent over Logic Engines and map-tables, hard at work deconstructing messages and building up a coherent map of the galaxy. This was tedious and meticulous work, akin to rebuilding parchments that had been shredded, but it was essential. Without the labours of these men and women the Storm Heralds would be fighting blind in the dark, unable to know what was happening beyond the confines of their own world. This was the less-well regarded but still vital function of the Librarian order, they were more than battle-psykers, they were the intelligence division of the whole Chapter.

Arvael went downwards, passing training dojos, arcane laboratories, meditation chambers, armouries and diplomatic meeting rooms. These last ones barely ever saw any use; the typical Initiate gave any Librarian a wide berth. Nothing less than a direct order would entice the average Battle-Brother to set foot in this tower. At last Arvael came to the Acolyte's barracks, situated on the ground floor, just between the serf's kitchens and the laundry room. That was no idle jest; it was intended to teach humility and modesty, that trappings of power were mere decorations. Arvael passed inside and found a shared common room, cluttered with tools and equipment, unfinished projects, piles of books and workbenches.

As Arvael entered he saw two other Acolytes within, both labouring over various tasks. It was odd for all three of the Storm Herald's Acolytes to be here at once for their free periods rarely coincided. Free time, Arvael scoffed to himself, that was a joke. Between the standard combat training and hypno-indoctrination expected of all Astartes and the psychic exercises, book learning and esoteric studies of a Librarian there were barely enough hours in the day to keep up. If it wasn't for his catalapsean node Arvael was sure that he would have been driven crazy by lack of sleep by now.

At one bench was Acolyte Quomas, fiddling with an intricate device and scowling with frustration. He was new here; barely a few months since he had been lifted out of the neophytes but he was dedicated and learning fast. His aura spoke of a shallow stream, steady for a time but then redirected by the rains into new courses. He was flexible, adaptable and eager to learn. His powers were not like Arvael's, being far more constrained and focussed. He was a technomancer, his powers tending to the realm of the inanimate. Machines were his forte and his to command.

The other Acolyte was Corac, a fierce and passionate soul. His aura was akin to a dry desert, crying out for rain. He was thirsty for glory, driven and ambitious, traits that would doubtlessly see him rise far. Corac was the oldest one here and his power was the most developed. He was a dimensionalist, able to see into angles beyond mere Euclidian geometry and tap the energies therein. The most impressive aspect of which was that he was currently sticking his fist through a solid block of plasteel. In one side and out the other, without interacting with the material or suffering physical harm.

There had also once been a fourth Acolyte, Joraz, but one day he had gone for a lesson and not come back. Inquires as to his fate had been met with frosty silence and the others had learned not to ask questions they did not want answered.

As Arvael entered Corac drew back his arm sharply and cried, "Two minutes, a new personal best!"

"Well done and you didn't lose any skin this time," Arvael commented.

Corac rubbed some feeling back into his pale arm and said, "Don't get cheeky, may I remind you that I had to help you clean up after your accident with the Laboratory vermin. Emperor wept, that was messy."

Arvael grinned saying, "Worth it though, did you remember the look on Adept Bortha's face?"

"The mortal looked like he was going to faint," Corac replied with a grin, "It was worth every hour of scrubbing the walls to see the old prune straining not to throw up."

Suddenly from the corner Quomas threw up his hands and spat, "By the maelstrom, why won't this work?!"

Arvael peered over and said, "What's that?"

Quomas held up a strange mesh of cogs and gears and exclaimed, "Adept Layard set me the task of repairing this perpetual motion device. But no matter what I try entropy keeps creeping in. I've followed all the instructions to the letter, so why won't it work?"

Corac laughed and said, "You're not supposed to get it to work, its impossible."

Quomas' face fell and he said, "What?! Then why did he make me sweat over this pile of dung for days?"

"It's a lesson in futility," Corac explained, "It's supposed to teach you that sometimes impossible things really are impossible. Even with the Warp somethings just can't be done."

Arvael glared at Corac and said, "A conclusion that he was supposed to come to on his own."

"Give him a break," Corac said with a grin, "Do you really want to watch him cry over it for two weeks like you did?"

"No," Arvael admitted, "Not when I've got to redo the whole Imperial ethics essay."

"What?! That one's easy," Corac exclaimed, "What did you do wrong?"

"I don't know," Arvael replied, "I tried to present a reasoned and mature argument."

"Well there was your mistake," Corac stated, "Imperial ethics is all about making a list of all the reasons that we are right and why anyone who disagrees with us should be shot."

Arvael laughed at that, enjoying their comradeship. Mundane Brother-Initiates avoided Psykers as much as possible, the serfs weren't friends and the ranking Librarians were their masters. These two were his only real friends now.

"Then I better not waste more time chatting with you," Arvael said as he left them behind, stepping into his private cell. Inside was a mat, a cluttered desk and a stool, a few shelves and not much else. He sighed and set down his book on a shelf before dropping onto his rough sleeping mat. He drummed his fingers for a moment, contemplating the assignment before him, then decided it could wait an hour.

Arvael stood back up and went to his desk, looking upon the pile of detritus stacked there. There were pliers, tiny hammers and drill bits, a small soldering tool, a self-heating crucible for melting silver and a small incense burner for blessing the Machine Spirits. Amongst the various tools was Arvael's private project, his greatest labour: his Force Weapon.

All Acolytes were expected to forge their own Force Weapons as part of their education and Arvael had chosen its form to best suit his powers. It was a short cylinder of Adamantium, with silver runes pressed onto the outside and a crystal core in the centre. From one end a dozen linked chains extended, each one boasting the same material and the same runes, leading to a ball of crystal that was embedded with sharp spikes. It resembled a primitive Morningstar, one an ancient warrior might have swung from horseback but it was so much more. With practice Arvael had learned to channel his Telekinesis into it, imbuing the crystal head with unearthly heft and inertia. A blow from this could snap a tree in half; it could flip a Chimera onto its side and crush a man to paste, all it lacked was a name. It had taken months to forge and he was eager to try it out in real combat.

Arvael sat down and pulled out a book, he opened a well-thumbed page and compared the diagrams inside to his own work. He scowled as he saw microscopic imperfections in his creation and reached over to activate the crucible. He lit the blessed incense while muttering ritual chants and then set to work correcting the flaws in his handiwork. For an hour he laboured over the weapon, lost in the intricate task. Then suddenly he heard a voice shouting behind him.

He sighed and deactivated his crucible before calling, "Say that again!"

Corac's voice came back, "A message from Master Echeb, we're to drop everything and come to launch bay seven."

"Right now?" queried Arvael.

"Immediately," Corac replied, "All assignments are suspended and he says to come armed."

Arvael grinned and grabbed his Force Weapon as he ran out; it looked like he might get to try it out sooner than expected.


	35. Chapter 35

**Captum Ante Chapter 34**

The cold night air hit them hard, tingling over their skin as they descended the stairs from the arched entrance of the Librarian's tower. Arvael, Corac and Quomas hurried down those stairs and dashed away, jogging between patches of light cast by lumen orbs. All around them serfs went about their duties, wrapped up warm against the chill. The planet Lujan II had an unusually slow rotation and nights lasted for Terran days, so the natives had developed their own system of sleep cycles that allowed them to function.

Arvael glanced back as he jogged along, seeing the Librarian's tower blotting out the stars with its half-kilometre height and immense girth. It was an imposing edifice, covered in gargoyles and wards of abjuration. This was the first time he had set foot outside it since his training in the Librarius had begun and he was interested to see the rest of the Fortress-Monastery with his own eyes.

Everywhere he looked new buildings had arisen; their walls blank save for the signature marks of the Adeptus Mechanicus. Less than a decade ago the planet had suffered under the invasion of the Chaos Lord Vorshaan and the Fortress-Monastery had been the scene of the last battle. Only the most desperate and foolhardy of defences had secured victory, a most improbable triumph that was still the talk of the Chapter to this very day.

Arvael hadn't been recruited then and the distant island he had been born on was too remote and insignificant to have attracted the invader's attention. Still he had seen the aftermath, the crumbling ruins and smoking craters left behind. In fact the Librarian's tower was one of only a handful of buildings that hadn't been toppled in the fighting; the rest had needed to be rebuilt stone by stone. In a way it was remarkable how fast the Chapter had rebuilt, the Fortress-Monastery was almost complete but the psychological scars might take centuries to fade.

Arvael reflected upon this, seeing the serfs labouring in the construction scaffolding high above. Many of them had been born here; others had been failed aspirants, a fate that he could not imagine for himself. A serf before them was supervising a team of heavy-lift servitors but soon got out of the way as he saw his transhuman masters approach.

As they carried on Corac said, "What could this possibly be about, why does Echeb need us?"

"Master Echeb," Arvael corrected him, "I don't know either, we will find out when we get there."

Quomas mused, "Launch bay seven, that's a Thunderhawk facility, are we going off-world?"

"Maybe," Arvael mused, "But it would be highly unusual, we haven't completed our training yet."

"Does that mean we will get issued power armour?" Corac asked.

"I doubt it," Quomas replied, "That has to be earned, you two have Force Weapons, I haven't even started on mine yet."

Arvael saw the looming bulk of the launch bay ahead of them, the closest to the Librarian's tower. It was a plain and unlovely cube of Ferrocrete, bereft of the traditional ornamentations the Storm Herald's favoured. Decorating had been a low priority during the rebuilding, restoring functionality had been considered more important. The trio slowed as they approached the doors, guarded by a pair of gun-servitors. The blank-faced machines ran biometric scans as the Acolytes closed then lowered their heavy bolters, letting them pass. Arvael led them into the launch bay, entering a space filled with the looming bulk of half-a-dozen Thunderhawk gunships. Each one was surrounded by teams of Enginseers and serf-artisans, lovingly tending to their charges with soothing chants and blessed unguents.

They were proud and mighty machines of war, soaring eagles of the sky and void that made Arvael's twin hearts flutter to gaze upon. They were a promise of violence writ in Plasteel and Ceramite, the medium by which the Chapter delivered the Space Marines to war. Each one was a blessed and revered relic but only one of them had waiting passengers. Two men, radically different in every way possible.

One of them was a giant in thick Ceramite armour, covered in eldritch runes and with many scrolls that hung from his belt. A Psychic hood framed his weathered skull and he had flaming comet icons engraved upon his greaves. In one hand he held a weighty staff, topped with a large blue crystal that was surrounded by three gold rings, so that it resembled a small orrery. It was Chief Librarian Echeb and he looked mightier in his full regalia than Arvael had ever seen him.

The other was slighter and much shorter, wearing a grey body-glove and a hooded oilskin cloak. He was a shadow in the Chief Librarian's wake, almost unnoticeable next to the mighty Psykanna Primus. It was Caius and Arvael was most surprised to see him here. Echeb saw them approaching and spat, "Finally, get inside now. We need to take off immediately."

Arvael, Corac and Quomas hurried up the Thunderhawk's ramp and quickly found places in the troop compartment. The gunship was designed to carry thirty Astartes at a time so they had plenty of choices. Arvael threw himself into a restraint cage and pulled it down over his head, then he grimaced and pushed it up. He took his Force Weapon from his belt, where it stabbed into him and stowed it in the weapon holder then pulled down the cage and locked it shut. The restraint cage was designed for warriors in power armour so it felt a little loose around his frame, clad only in a short robe as he was. Yet it was more secure than Caius' arrangements, the serf had to strap himself against the wall using some cargo netting, bundled up like a crate of Bolter ammunition. Echeb locked himself into a restraint cage and a second later the gunship's engines powered up and the craft leapt away.

Arvael felt himself being pressed into his cage as enormous G-forces crushed him down. He saw Caius was going grey as his mortal heart struggled to pump blood to his head. It was a fast take-off and they swiftly broke the sound barrier, leaving the island behind to fly out over Lujan II's endless oceans. Arvael knew there was no point asking the pilots to do anything less. Thunderhawk crews didn't believe in operating under anything other than active combat parameters. Their attitude was that if the throttle levers weren't jammed into the red then there wasn't any point in taking off at all.

After a minute the G-forces subsided as the Gunship reached supersonic cruising speed and some colour returned to Caius' face. Arvael breathed easier and looked over at the Chief Librarian who seemed lost in thought. After a moment Arvael dared to ask, "My Master, what is our mission?"

Echeb gazed at him imperiously then said, "Tell me Arvael, what do you know of Lujan II's late governor?"

Arvael sighed; it was typical teacher behaviour to answer a question with a question. He wracked his brain for a moment then said, "The former Lord Governor died during the invasion, he was killed in the first wave. Shortly afterwards an Atonomic bomb was detonated in the Capital city, levelling it entirely and irradiating the whole continent of Ka Lua. The entire ruling class and their servants had to be evacuated due to radiation poisoning, few survived."

"Correct," Echeb then he moved on and said, "Corac, tell me what happened next."

Corac replied by rote, "A new governor was elected, Akon Keli'i, a rich merchant whose family practically owns the primary spaceport on Lujan II. He subsequently moved to a new Palace on the continent of Ka Mua, the planet's industrial heart."

"An acceptable answer," Echeb stated, "Quomas, tell me of Akon Keli'i."

Quomas gulped to be picked out but hesitantly said, "The Lord Governor's rule has been troubled, his administration struggles to manage the multitude of complications involved with the rebuilding. Work keeps being stopped by resource shortages and off-world trade issues. He is also surrounded by baseless accusations of personal corruption and nepotism."

"They're not baseless," came the voice of Caius from the corner, "The man's greed is boundless and he cares for nothing save lining his own pockets. His rampant embezzlement of funds has lengthened the task of rebuilding by decades."

Arvael was shocked to hear that and said, "My Master, why would the Chapter tolerate this?"

Echeb scowled and said, "Civilian affairs are beneath our concern, we are warriors not counting clerks. As long as our ability to wage war is unimpeded we leave the administration of civilian matters to mortals. Unfortunately, that line has now been crossed; Akon Keli'i has been foolish enough to divert defence spending to his own pocket, interfering with the construction of replacement orbital defences. This cannot be tolerated so I shall have words with him, to express the Chapter's displeasure."

Corac and Arvael shared a glance, both imagining the Lord Governor's reaction when an angry Astartes Librarian kicked in his door to explain matters to him.

Corac spoke up to say, "So we are here to stand with you?"

Echeb shook his head and said, "No, you have another mission, one that requires great subtly."

Arvael was confused and said, "My Master, what are you saying?"

Echeb paused, a strange reaction then said, "You would not have been told this until later in your training but there are certain assets the Chapter wields that are not common knowledge. You know that we have many sources of intelligence: Astropaths, visionaries, patrol ships, Imperial reports and so forth. What you do not know it that we have a few private ones. Select proxies and mortal contacts who operate out of sight and report to me alone."

Arvael was stunned, he had no idea that such a thing was occurring and he blurted out, "Does Chapter Master Gorgall know of this?"

"Gorgall knows not to ask too many questions," Echeb snapped back, but then he said in a softer tone, "All Imperial institutions have their own network of agents. The Astartes will never openly admit it but we do too, even the Ultramarines have their Vigil Opertii. Our regular Brothers want to think of themselves as noble heroes and we of the Librarius strive to let them keep thinking that way. Nobody wants to know where we get our intelligence from, as long as it points true."

Arvael absorbed this as Quomas asked, "What are we to do then?"

"One of our contacts has vital intel for us," Echeb explained, "Normal routes are too slow, we must collect it in person. The second we land every eye will be on me, every spy for every Imperial institution and private interest. I will draw their attention away while you escort Caius in secret to rendezvous with our contact. Keep him alive and obey his every word."

"Him?!" Corac spat, "You want us to take orders from a Serf?"

Echeb fixed him with an angry glare and barked, "Caius has more experience at this than all three of you combined, he can walk where you cannot and talk to those you cannot. When he speaks he does so with my full authority and you will obey him as you would me!"

Arvael gulped and said, " We understand my Master."

"Good," said Echeb, "Now two more things: one this will be the first time you are operating outside the Librarian's tower so you will no longer enjoy the protection of its psychic wards. Your powers have been tested and your training is sufficient for the task. You have license to use your abilities if necessary, but only if necessary and only if there is no alternative. You are not to engage in needless battles or show off like a Lexicanium on his first deployment… Corac I am talking to you."

"I hear and obey," Corac stated promptly.

Arvael dared to ask, "And the other thing?"

Echeb drew in a breath and said, "Everyone knows that the Storm Heralds Chapter does not conduct clandestine operations and we especially do not let Battle-Psykers out among the civilian populace. You are ordered to ensure that idea remains common knowledge, not a whisper of this can be allowed to spread."

Arvael was confused but Quomas was the one who pressed, "What does that mean?"

Caius leaned out and said, "What he's saying is that if we should be detected then you are to leave no witnesses alive to tell the tale."

Arvael gulped at that statement, and he wondered what it might imply. As the Thunderhawk tore across the sky he could not help but ponder on what they were about to walk into.


	36. Chapter 36

**Captum Ante Chapter 35**

Ka Mua bustled in the night, busy with the activity of twenty million people going about their lives. It was a bustling metropolis that covered the entire continent, all eight million square kilometres of it. Here the natural wealth of Lujan II was gathered and processed, brought in by endless streams of ships from all across the planet.

The entire coastline was ringed with dockyards and transit hubs, then there were smelters yards, factories and promethium refineries. Then there were the miles of warehouses, filled to bursting with fish and edible seaweeds, just waiting to be shipped off-world to the hungry hive-cities of Tectum and Angle's Redoubt. In the centre of the continent lay the great spaceport, a vast conglomeration of shuttle pads, control towers, terminus's and the huge support platforms for starships to land upon. The continent was the industrial heart of Lujan II and such a place required millions of labourers to keep it functioning. Of course wherever there were large gatherings of people one inevitably found poverty, destitution and crime.

Arvael was reflecting upon this as he waited, watching the common mass of humanity go about their business. He was currently lurking in a darkened alley, looking out at a filthy street. He held back, keeping to the shadows as he observed the people of the metropolis and found them to be disappointing in the extreme. They seemed in poor health, scrawny from lack of nutrition and riddled with diseases. Penniless vagrants squatted against walls or in doorways, many of them staring off into infinity with the blank gazes of the insane or the drug-addled.

Here and there street-vendors displayed items for sale, mostly food and drinks of a fermented nature; these were guarded by men with large clubs in their hands as a deterrent to thieves. Occasionally a ground car would roll past, spewing Promethium fumes and every time one stopped it would be accosted by folk trying to sell them things. On the roadsides youths in shockingly vibrant colours strutted, their coats bulging with poorly concealed weapons. These all shared a common tattoo of two crossed fishing-spears, gang-tags of their allegiance. They wandered up and down, collecting bribes from merchants and accosting those who could not fight back. On the far corners women in wholly inappropriate clothing displayed themselves, offering their bodies while burly pimps looked on.

Arvael understood this squalor in the intellectual sense, he had read of such depravity in his studies of human nature. Yet this was so far outside his range of experience that there was simply no way to relate to any of it. He compared this environment to the distant island he had grown up upon. Remembering the clean beaches and open fields, the community of people who lived and fished and farmed as a united family and he could not believe this was the same planet. This entire scene offended him, the weakness, the apathy and the despair were an affront to the spirit of an Astartes and he didn't understand how these people could live with it.

He slunk back and made his way to his companions, who were holding further back in the dark alley. While Echeb had departed the landing fields in full pomp and circumstance, drawing away any watching eyes, their departure had been far less glamorous. They had been forced to wait for the ground crews to move on to other tasks and then slip away from the Thunderhawk on foot. Making their way into the slums without being seen.

Now Corac and Quomas were lurking under heavy cloaks, each of them bearing strange metal implements stuck to their skins under the material. Caius had ordered the trio to don these as a disguise. Apparently it was quite common for local criminals to enhance themselves with vat-grown muscles, performance-enhancing drugs and illegal augmetics. So, in a poor light, the trio could pass for three bulked-out thugs, just so long as they didn't move to their full potential. No amount of chemical or bionic enhancement could replicate the deadly speed and power of an Astartes.

Caius himself fit right in with his bodyglove and oil-skin coat, he had dirtied up his face and rubbed engine grease into his hair, giving him a filthy appearance. Together the party resembled a petty criminal and his enforcers, which should suffice for most cursory inspections.

Arvael approached them and said, "Everything seems normal."

Caius looked at him disapprovingly and said, "You call that a report? Try again."

Arvael bit back a retort, he didn't like being bossed about by a Serf but swallowed his distaste to say, "Various petty criminals inhabit the area but they present no threat."

"No threat to an Astartes but remember our cover, you can't just slaughter everyone we meet," Caius corrected, "Think of it as a battlefield and use that tactical training. Who is out of place, who is taking too long or not paying attention to what they are doing?"

Arvael considered it again, replaying the scene with perfect recall. As he did so he applied his tactical mind to the problem, deconstructing it with the threat assessment techniques taught to all Astartes. When he thought of the street as a battlefield several things leapt out at him immediately.

He reviewed his conclusions and said, "Those gang members on the far corner, they are playing cards but no money is changing hands, it's a pretence. There a pict-camera on the second floor over that doorway over there, every other one has been smashed but this one is suspiciously intact. And the gang-tag on that wall over there has been altered; it's hiding a mnemonic cypher the Chapter's scouts use."

"Good," Caius said, "That's the sign our contact has been here, but someone was on their tail. There are too many observers hanging around for this to be a coincidence. There's a dead-drop behind that gang-tag and a package we have to collect, unobserved that is, no killing anybody."

Quomas said, "So how do we do it?"

Caius explained, "I have established a cover as a go-to bruiser for the local gangs, a fixer for when they need a professional. I will go distract the lookouts, Arvael when the coast is clear go to the altered tag, there should be a loose brick in the wall, the package is behind it. Quomas I need you to use your power to fudge that pict-camera, don't break it, just put it in a loop for a few seconds. Corac go to the street vendor over there, give the man this brass coin and collect a bottle of the green drink, green mind you not blue, it's important that it's not blue."

The trio nodded and watched as Caius set off, heading out with a confident stride. As they observed him Corac commented, "Look at him, arrogant swine, walking about like he owns the place."

Arvael shook his head and said, "It's not arrogance its confidence, he's done this before. Look at how people are reacting to his presence; they aren't alarmed to see him. He's a known face around here, not a stranger, this cover of his is not a new one."

"How is that possible?" Quomas asked, "He's equerry to the Chief Librarian, why would he take the trouble to maintain a cover here?"

Corac rolled his eyes and said, "Two words: Plausible Deniability. How would the Chief Librarian explain it if he was caught skulking about down here? But a mere mortal... if Caius gets captured or killed who would care?"

Quomas looked troubled and said, "This entire situation sits ill with me, why does the Chapter need spies? We are warriors, not infiltrators."

Arvael replied, "Not every foe is obvious, sometimes enemies are annoyingly unwilling to stand out in the open where we can see them."

Quomas frowned and said, "Isn't that what the Inquisition is for?"

"The Inquisition?!" Corac spat, "You would rely on those devious snakes?"

Arvael agreed and said, "I have met an Inquisitor and I was far from impressed."

Quomas' jaw dropped and he said, "You never mentioned that, what was he like?"

Arvael answered frankly, "Untrustworthy, treacherous and concerned far more with advancing his own agenda than rooting out enemies of the Emperor. If we find ourselves relying on the likes of him the Chapter is in big trouble."

Corac interrupted to say, "Be ready, Caius is in position, Arvael do your thing."

Arvael nodded and reached into deep his soul, looking for that part of his mind that set him apart from the rest of humanity. Deep within his soul there was a crack in the surface of reality, a doorway to the perilous dimensions of the Warp. The Librarius had taught him how to close that door, sealing it shut with locks and wards and barriers. Now he undid those locks, opening the door a fraction to let a trickle of power slip through.

Arvael was surprised at how readily the power came and how turbulent it was. He had only used his power within the protected confines of the Librarian's tower and this was like the difference between a sheltered harbour and the open ocean. Still all his training had been dedicated to controlling and shaping this power and he applied himself to the task.

Arvael took the power and used it to expand his vision, pushing his awareness out to fly across the whole street. Every inch of the street revealed itself to him, every hidden corner and every individual present. He quickly assessed the area and saw Caius talking to the look-outs, chatting casually like they knew him well. The drop-point itself was well concealed but still would require him to cross the street first.

Arvael looked for a clear route but determined that it was too crowded, he would be seen. He scanned for a distraction and found one in the form of a homeless vagrant, pushing a metal cart filled with worthless detritus. With the power of the Warp at his fingertips it was simple to reach out and flip the trolley onto its side, tipping trash everywhere in a ringing clatter of noise.

As all eyes flickered to see the source of the disturbance the three Space Marines leapt into action. Quomas reached out with his technomancy and took control of the pict-camera while Corac and Arvael slipped out of the alley.

Arvael hastened to cross the street, he reached the drop-point unobserved and retrieved the package from behind its loose brick. It was a small data-crystal and he gripped it in his fist as he quickly returned to his hiding spot.

He slipped into the darkness without comment and waited until Caius returned. The serf slipped into the alley and said, "Did you get it?"

Arvael presented the data-crystal and said, "What's on it?"

Caius eyed him as he tucked it away in a pocket and said, "You don't need to know that."

Quomas scowled and said, "You shouldn't keep secrets from us."

Caius shook his head and said, "That's what Echeb pays me to do, besides doesn't your Codex have something to say on the matter of need-to-know?"

Arvael scowled in annoyance but begrudgingly admitted, "Codex, Vol XII, chapter IX, verse II: A soldier on the field has a limited perspective and so may not understand the orders he is given. Yet he must obey, trusting that his commanders have more information than he does and that he is playing his part in the larger plan."

However Quomas looked confused and said, "You get... paid?"

Caius smirked and said, "You think a network like this comes cheap, the bribes I give out alone could feed a Guard Regiment."

At that point Corac slipped into the alley, a green bottle in his hand and a triumphant grin on his face. He held up the bottle and declared, "I've got it! I don't know what it's for but I got it!"

"Good," Caius said as he snatched the bottle from Corac's hand and screwed off the lid, "I'm thirsty."

The three watched in amazed disbelief as Caius downed the bottle in long gulps and Arvael was stunned by his casual disregard for the Emperor's Finest. Corac looked equally bemused and said, "You're thirsty?"

"Yes," Caius replied wiping his lips with the back of a sleeve.

"Why did it have to be green?" Quomas inquired.

Caius replied, "Because I hate the taste of azure-berry juice."

Arvael sighed and said, "So what's next?"

Caius dropped the bottle and said, "I'm hydrated but still sober, we need to fix that. Let's go find a pub."

With that they set off and Arvael couldn't help but wonder what kind of mad fool Echeb had them trailing around after.


	37. Chapter 37

**Captum Ante Chapter 36**

The bar was dark and filled with smoke, a hot and sweaty atmosphere where whispers were a constant susurrus in the background. It was underground, set into a crumbling basement, lit only by flickering lumen orbs. Nobody raised their voices here or laughed aloud, this wasn't the place for such joviality. Instead men stared hard into their drinks and slugged them back swiftly, not caring for the taste so long as the alcohol within was strong enough. The space was filled with small round tables and lined with booths, dividing groups of people off from each other. Here and there joy-girls and boys wandered about, plying their trade and leading marks through a door at the back that led upstairs. It wasn't at all the kind of place that encouraged friendship or camaraderie; which was why the criminal element favoured it so.

The clientele all looked up as the entrance door slammed open, revealing a quartet of men. Three of them were the looming shapes of bulked-out enforcers, with their vat-grown muscles and stimm injectors. There was a narrowing of eyes among the crowd but then they relaxed as they recognised the fourth man. Here was a face they knew, a fixer-for-hire, who sold his talents to the highest bidder. More than a few present had called upon his services at some point and the rest knew someone else who had.

Arvael looked around the bar as Caius led them down the stairs to the floor and was repulsed by the vulgarity on display, by the denigration of humanity before him. He could see the hidden weapons on everybody, the poorly healed scars and clenched fists. Such marks should have been proud declarations of strength and honour but these people made them marks of inequity. His enhanced hearing could pick out the differences between marks of bolter rifles in the middle of a pitched battle so it was easy for him to skim the scores of conversations in the bar. Most were engaged in discussions of planned crimes or bragging about the torments they had inflicted upon the weak and helpless. More than a few were plotting coups against their gang-leaders or talking about suspected snitches what they would do to them.

Arvael sneered and whispered, "This is disgraceful, why do the local Constables tolerate such delinquency?"

"Because they get large bribes to ignore it," Caius snapped, "Now shut up before someone hears you."

Caius led the trio up to the wooden counter at one end, where a burly man was serving a drink. He glanced up as Caius tapped the counter with a ring set upon his left hand. The barman shoved a tankard towards the waiting customer then said, "Gayab, haven't seen you here in a while."

Arvael was confused but realised that Caius wasn't using his real name here as he responded, "Hargor, I've been busy."

This Hargor raised an eyebrow and said suspiciously, "Really, I haven't heard about any big jobs involving you. What sort of work is this?"

Caius pulled out a large silver coin from a pocket and the barman's eyes widened as he said, "The kind that can be very profitable if you keep your mouth shut when the Constables come asking for me."

Hargor nodded and hurriedly tucked the coin away saying, "What'll it be?"

Caius slid a second silver over the counter and said, "Four tankards, the good stuff mind, not the swill you serve this lot and keep 'em coming."

Hargor eagerly nodded and hastened to pull down a keg from a high shelf behind him, one that hadn't been opened yet. As the barman served their drinks Arvael noticed several of the patrons were watching them closely, eyeing the silvers that Caius was flashing about. Arvael leaned forward and stared at them, letting out a growl as he did so. The patrons seemed cowed by his act and sank back, intimidated by his size and bulk, but had they suspected his true nature then they would have run screaming in terror.

Caius collected the four tankards and led them over to a booth in the corner, one with its back against a wall and facing the door where no one could hear them. The four of them squeezed into the booth, Arvael barely managing to get his knees under the table. They sat there in silence then Caius said, "Well then, drink up."

They complied, supping the frothing liquid and Arvael grimaced at the taste. It was a thick and sour brew, containing enough alcohol to strip paint. Naturally it couldn't possibly trouble his enhanced physique but it did taste foul.

Quomas grimaced and said, "That's rank."

Caius guzzled eagerly at his tankard and said, "What do you lads normally drink?"

Arvael answered, "Water, laced with tailored chemical-nutrients, but the Chapter does keep a selection of wines for ceremonies and victory celebrations. It's largely symbolic, getting drunk is not encouraged among heavily armed warriors, trained to kill with perfect efficiency.

"Except for the Space Wolves," Corac quipped, "Rumour has it that they never go into battle sober."

"You listen to too many rumours," Arvael scolded, "Let's focus on the matter at hand, why are we here?"

"We're just here to pass some time," Caius replied casually but Arvael saw his eyes surveying the room and surmised that he was lying. He followed the serf's eye line and saw he was watching a woman who was making her way over to them. She was in a dishevelled state; with a dress that was half-open at the front, lips painted far too red and large messy hair. There was also something wrong with her hips, they moved far too much, making her rear sway from side to side as she walked.

Arvael assessed this woman and found her stance to be all wrong, her feet were too narrowly placed for effective balance in combat and her mass was too top-heavy to withstand a strong blow. Her hair was an encumbrance, her clothing provided no physical protection and the bizarre way she moved was a wasteful and inefficient use of energy. For some reason the other patrons didn't seem to agree with Arvael's assessment and a lot of appreciative eyes followed her across the room, particularly when she walked past them and they could watch her strange gait from the rear.

The woman approached them and called out in a coarse accent, "Why Gayab, haven't seen ya in an age luv."

Caius nodded in response to his alias and said, "Mayra, still in business?"

"Fancy the usual?" the woman asked flicking her eyes at the door leading upstairs.

Caius pulled out a silver and said, "I'm in no rush, let's take it slow."

The woman smiled and picked up the coin saying, "For silver, I've got all night."

Caius smiled, shuffling up as the woman slid in next to him and placed a hand on his knee. The serf slid an arm around her waist and pulled her close, grabbing a handful of flesh under her clothes as he did so. Arvael rolled his eyes in disgust and looked away; he turned to Corac and said, "This is a complete waste of time."

Corac was supping at his drink and said, "I don't know, I'm starting to like this stuff."

Quomas sighed and said, "By the Throne why did Master Echeb send us here, it's beneath our dignity. You should lodge a protest."

Arvael snorted and said, "You lodge a protest, I would love to see the Master's face when you did so."

Corac finished his drink and said, "How long are we going to stay here, mollycoddling a Serf's vices?"

Arvael was about to answer but then he glanced at Caius and was astonished by what he saw. The woman, Mayra, was doing something to Caius' ear with her mouth and moving her hand up his chest but to Arvael it was obvious that in her palm was an object. A momentary flash revealed to him the presence of a data-crystal, one that she discretely tucked into a pocket. Arvael tuned in his enhanced hearing and also picked up something odd, in a soft voice the woman was whispering, "…the agent in the orbital shipping office confirms the target arrived within the last week."

Caius appeared to be enjoying what she was doing but he whispered into her dishevelled hair, "Do we have a current location?"

Mayra replied, "No, he lost it afterwards, it could be anywhere now."

Arvael was stunned as he realised this was no random encounter; this was a carefully orchestrated meeting. The woman was not a stranger, she was the contact that they had been sent to meet. Suddenly everything came into focus, Caius' strange behaviour was all a cover, they were in fact exactly where they were meant to be. Arvael was about to explain this to his Brothers but then a shadow fell over the booth and a deep voice growled, "You're in my seat."

Arvael looked up and saw a man in a patched coat standing over them, with a half-dozen bulked out thugs behind him. He had a scarred face, stubble upon his chin and an angry glower which he was aiming at them.

Caius looked up and said "No need for hostility friend, let me buy you a round," but as he did so his fingers twitched. Arvael recognised it as a Chapter battle-sign, one that meant 'Prepare for combat.'

Arveal tensed as the man growled, "I'm not your friend," and his compatriots visibly adjusted their stances for aggression. A fight suddenly seemed inevitable. Silence fell over the whole bar as the confrontation played out, something about that was off but Arvael was distracted from thinking about it.

At that moment his sixth sense tingled and he scented the unmistakable tang of Warp power, a scent that was familiar to him. He glanced over and saw Corac sitting there, shimmering with psychic might. Arvael was incredulous, his Brother was preparing to unleash the Warp itself, in a bar fight no less. It was grotesque overkill, like using a Hellstrike missile to kill one cockroach and Arvael couldn't believe that Corac would be so blasé about using his power.

Arvael reached out himself and tapped into Corac's mind, he was hardly a proficient telepath but was able to project, _*What you doing, no powers*_

 _*Comes combat*_ Corac pulsed back clumsily, Telepathy hardly his forte either.

 _*No powers*_ Arvael scolded him, _*Fists*_

 _*Fine*_ Corac stated with annoyance but his power simmered down to a low burble.

While they had been communicating the man confronting Caius had said, "You, me, outside now."

Caius looked exasperated and spread his hands saying, "Can't we talk about this like civilized folk?"

The man opened his mouth once more but suddenly Caius acted, his left hand twitched and from it a thin las-beam sprang forth. There was a digital weapon concealed in his ring, Arvael realised, and it struck the man right between the eyes, blowing his brains out. As he toppled over his compatriots stood dumbfounded, unable to believe that Caius had shot first.

It cost them dear, for Arvael was already in motion. With a twitch he hurled his tankard at the nearest, smashing the thug in the face and then leapt up, tipping over the table. The man fell over and before anyone could react the Space Marines were on them. Arvael punched a man in the chest with his bare fist, crushing in the rib cage and stopping the heart, then he stamped down on the man who he had hit with the tankard, finishing him off. Meanwhile Corac had a dagger in hand and he stabbed an opponent through the throat before whipping it back to plunge into the eye of the next. Next to him Quomas swung a hand laterally and hit a man in the neck, snapping his spinal cord with one blow, making him fall like a puppet with its strings cut.

These men were strong warriors, brutal bullies bulked-out with vat-grown muscle and stimm-injectors but it hadn't mattered. It had taken the Space Marines barely two seconds to finish this lot off but their victory was short lived. Suddenly there was tremendous screeching noise and Arvael glanced round to see every patron standing up, all of them with weapons in hand and glaring murderously at the Space Marines. They moved as one and Arvael realised that this was no bar fight, this was a trap.

Quomas gulped and said, "What do we do now?"

"Now?" Arvael said reaching for his Morningstar, "Now we use our powers."


	38. Chapter 38

**Captum Ante Chapter 37**

With a ferocious roar the crowd came at them, a hundred hardened criminals and murders leaping forward with knives and pistols in hand. Scars and kill-tags tattoos laid out a lifetime of violence, the many times they had cut short a life and left ruin in their wake. They rushed at their prey in an overwhelming mass, seeking to drown them in bodies.

Opposing them was a tiny knot of resistance, a mere handful of people against a hundred. Two mortals and three warriors but then those warriors were Space Marines, humanity's greatest bastion against an uncaring universe, the Emperor's Finest and the Imperium's most terrifying weapon. Arvael grinned; these fools had no idea what strength they had set themselves against.

As the first thug came at them Arvael's gene-implants flooded his body with hyper-adrenaline, priming him for battle. Time seemed to slow around him and the criminal's movements slowed to a crawl. Arvael twitched his hand and the head of his Morningstar fell free, dangling on the end of its chain. He reached within his soul and undid the locks on his mind, allowing the power of the Warp to flow. He took this power and shaped it with his will as he had been taught; channelling it through his meticulously prepared mental architecture into his Force Weapon. The crystal ball began to glow with an eldritch light and a rim of frost formed as the energy accumulated within it.

Arvael saw the thug in mid-leap and drew back his arm, preparing to strike. Such a movement would have left mortal men open and vulnerable but Arvael was Transhuman and he whipped his arm back, sending the head of the Morningstar hurtling forward. Arvael had never used this power in combat before, he had only trained on hardened Servitors and inanimate objects and it turned out that he had completely misjudged the amount of power required. As the Force Weapon connected the crystal head blazed with light, spilling out his Telekinetic might in a torrent. As the power flowed the thug burst from within, exploding outwards in all directions like popping a balloon filled with water. Blood and bone and hair sprayed everywhere, covering the crowd with gore.

The mass of thugs was stunned by that even the most vicious murderers shocked and horrified by the explosion of blood. For his part Arvael cursed, he had bungled his first strike and done exactly what he had scolded Corac for attempting. The key to being a Librarian was control and moderation, letting rip with everything one had was recklessly dangerous and an invitation to lurking Daemons. Whatever threat these thugs posed paled into insignificance compared to the peril of a Neverborn breaking through his mental defences.

Arvael adjusted his mental architecture for finer control and slammed shut all but a few locks within his mind, cutting the power to a mere trickle rather a torrent. This had taken less time than a heart took to beat once and the thugs were still standing dumbfounded as before. However the Space Marines were not about to give them time to recover and charged forward, meeting them head-on.

Arvael charged into the packed mass of thugs, swinging his Morningstar in wide sweeps. This time the power discharge in a controlled fashion, breaking bones, snapping limbs and throwing mortals to the ground two or three at a time. Arvael waded into their ranks, smashing and blasting all that he encountered, throwing them aside effortlessly. They tried to fight back, scoring knives across his skin or trying to draw a bead with las-pistols but Arvael was in constant motion, battering them down before they could injure him.

Beside him Arvael saw that Quomas was in the heart of the melee, holding in his hands a short rod just long enough for him to grip two-handed. From each end a long spike had shot forth, crackling with electro-magnetic lightning. He had not forged a Force Weapon himself but this shock-stave was deadly none the less, he swung it in great sweeps that disembowelled his opponents and even the slightest touch sent men collapsing in stunned spams. The two of them were wreaking havoc but even combined they could not compare to Corac. The Acolyte was wielding two long daggers, his Force Weapons, and he stuck out left and right simultaneously, killing with both hands. Even for Arvael it was difficult to keep track of his movements, his hands blurring and his form seeming to blink from place to place, so fast did he move.

Corac's power was to see and manipulate dimensions, the hidden angles of reality and right now he was folding time around himself. Creating the effect the Librarius labelled, 'The Quickening'. He was a blur of carnage in the mass of humanity and nothing could lay him low. Arvael saw a mortal trying to draw a bead on him with a crude autogun and was about to intervene but Corac held up a hand and space rippled as a Fractal distortion appeared in mid-air. He was folding space now, creating angles in reality itself. The bullet entered the Fractal Shield and was redirected, leaving at a ninety-degree angle to its previous course.

Arvael was impressed by the ease with which Corac had manifested his power; his skill was growing day by day. But Arvael was not to be outdone, he redoubled his efforts and ploughed into the foes, breaking and smashing all before him. In less than a minute the three Space Marines had dismantled the thugs and they left broken and bleeding bodies everywhere. Arvael reached the end of the room and turned around, seeing what they had wrought. Behind them lay a trail of bodies, leading back to the mortals they had left in their wake. These two had not been idle; Caius was peering out from behind the upturned table with a smouldering las-pistol in hand. A ring of bodies lay around him, each riddled with las-fire as a testament to his stoic defence.

But what really drew Arvael's eye was Mayra, who had a man down on his knees. From somewhere she had drawn two wooden grips and between them stretched a thin piece of flexible wire. She had this wrapped around the thug's throat and was practically standing on his back as she pulled it taught. For long seconds they grappled, Mayra holding on with surprising strength and then the man collapsed forward, going grey as he choked to death. Silence fell and Arvael surveyed the scene, the Space Marines had laid waste to the bar, and they were surrounded by dead and unconscious men. Caius stood up and said, "Well that was exciting."

Arvael didn't know what to make of that but saw that Mayra was furiously kicking the dead man over and over, worrying the corpse like a rabid dog. Caius looked over and said, "Knock-it off, he's dead."

"Filthy pigs," Mayra spat in a clipped, icy tone quite unlike her previous form of speech, "You don't know what they did to me in the nights, their grabbing hands all over me and disgusting breath on my neck."

Caius growled unsympathetically, "You knew the deal when you agreed to this assignment."

"Three years," Mayra hissed, "Three years of selling myself for your blasted Intel, you can't imagine the things I did."

"Enough," Caius barked, "We serve not at our pleasure… "

"But for Him on Terra," Mayra said by rote, "In all things."

"I know it was hard but your cover is blown, you can't come back, hold onto that," Caius said with the slightest trace of sympathy then he snapped back to his cool demeanour saying, "Now lads, what do you make of all this?"

Arvael realised that he was talking to them and replied, "They would not all attack at once, unless this was a prepared ambush. They knew we were coming."

Caius nodded said, "Yes, we've been compromised. There's no telling if it was a careless leak or a mole in our network. We'll have to completely dismantle the spaceport cell and start again from scratch. I thought it was odd that Echeb sent you lot in but he must have suspected something, we'd be dead without you. "

Mayra raised an eyebrow in surprise and said, "They're Masters... really?"

Caius nodded and Mayra commented, "I thought they'd be taller."

Arvael was nonplussed by the way they were talking about him and said, "Hadn't we better get out of here?"

Caius replied, "First we need to find out who was behind this, find me a live one."

The three Space Marine swiftly checked the bodies, many of the thugs were still alive but in no condition to talk. Then from behind the bar, Corac dragged out the barman, cowering in terror and hiding his face behind his hands. Corac held the burly man off the floor effortlessly in one hand, like he was a bag of flour and snapped, "Talk!"

Hargor was flushed in the face and said, "Don't kill me, don't kill me, it wasn't my idea!"

Caius strode up and said, "Who's idea was it then?"

Hargor blurted, "I can't tell you, they'll kill me."

Corac shook him and said, "Tell him or face me."

Hargor started whimpering and Corac sighed, he twisted his free hand before Hargor's face and the man screamed, grabbing at his guts in pain. Corac pulled him close and said, "That's what it feels like to have the dimensions folded inside your body. Would you care to see what it feels like when it happens inside your skull?"

Hargor screamed and shouted, "The Kalama family, they set this up. They paid everybody off to make sure you were dead!"

"The Kalama crime family, that fits," Caius said thoughtfully, "They've got their hands in every scam from here to orbit. Never thought they'd get involved with something like this though."

"So you have a name," Corac said, then shook the barman asking, "What about this one?"

"Hum?" Caius said distractedly, "Oh, kill him."

"No," Mayra said with a snarl as she picked up a discarded las-pistol, "Let me do it."

Hargor panicked and shouted, "No! No there's more, I overhead them talking! the Necroteuch they have a copy of the…"

His words were cut off as a las-pistol shot burned between his eyes and killed him, Marya lowered the pistol and spat, "I've wanted to do that for three years."

Arvael was surprised by the vehemence in her tone and the crisp professional accuracy of her shot. Everything about her had changed, her demeanour, her voice, her stance, even her expressions had changed. He filed that away for later and said, "Now can we go?"

Caius was reaching over the bar and brought out a bottle of spirits, he opened it and poured the contents over the counter, letting it run down on the unconscious men. He pulled out a flip-lighter saying, "Let's cover our tracks and go report this to Echeb."

Quomas sounded surprised and said, "You want to burn this place down?"

"You know his orders: no witnesses," Caius replied sternly.

Quomas protested and said, "But there are people upstairs, innocents who raised no hand against us."

Caius actually paused and looked at the gore covered Astartes saying, "Do you realise that I just watched you lot explode a man and now you get squeamish?"

Quomas sounded offended as he said, "That was in honourable combat, the glory of melee, but to start a fire like a common murderer…"

Caius shook his head and said, "Your kind and your honour, quite happy to rip a man's spine out on the battlefield but ask you to kill someone with their pants down and you get all prudish."

Arvael agreed, it was easy to forget how young Quomas was; his naivety would not last long once he saw a real war. He put a hand on Quomas' shoulder and said, "Not all deeds bring glory, not all enemies come at you openly and sometimes duty calls us to do unsavoury acts. Steel yourself for those days; you must be as stern and unforgiving as you would be facing a horde of Orks. Hold your honour close to your hearts but know that the Emperor expects your obedience."

Quomas nodded and said, "I understand."

Caius dropped his lighter on the bar and then hastened away as it erupted into flames. He passed them and Marya followed as he shouted, "Quit gabbing and run, you don't want to be here when it hits the Kegs!"

Arvael and the others followed him out, leaving behind an inferno as they raced off into the night to find the heart of this perfidy.


	39. Chapter 39

**Captum Ante Chapter 38**

Thunder rolled over the horizon, a distant ringing echo that filled the sky with a booming rattle. The noise made men and women look up from whatever they were doing, knowing all too well what it heralded. The planet Lujan II had an unusually slow rotation, leading to appreciable differences in temperature between day and night. When this was combined with its vast world-girdling oceans the result was a most unusual phenomenon. All along the terminus between day and night was a series of cyclones, hurricane and tempests, travelling at the exact same speed as the planet's rotation. This was known to one and all as the Emperor's Storm and the natives believed that it bore the judgement of Him on Terra.

Everywhere work stopped, labourers closing down factories and transit hubs. Storm shutters were run down, breakable items were rushed indoors and rain channels were checked lest floodwaters rise up. Everywhere people began to make their way home, seeking the comfort of family and prayer. Even criminals ceased their activities; many of them hurriedly seeking out confessional priests in a vain attempt to absolve their many sins before the Emperor's judgement fell.

At the spaceport the story was no different, men moving shuttles and equipment into large, overbuilt hangers. From one of the vast starship landing pads, themselves vast towering blocks of hydraulic supports and anti-gravs projectors, an immense cargo vessel lifted off, heaving its kilometre long mass back to the safety of orbit.

One craft however was not moving, one gunship left sitting out on the ferrocrete apron. None of the ground crew dared approach it for it was a Thunderhawk of the Storm Heralds, left waiting for the return of Chief Librarian Echeb.

Around the open ramp of that gunship Arvael, Corac and Quomas waited, standing out in the open where they could be seen. Gone were their crude disguises and hoods, now they stood proudly in blue robes, emblazoned with the arcane runes of the Librarium. The party had slunk back to the spaceport and slipped up to the gunship without anybody noticing. Then Caius and Mayra had ducked into the troop bay to hide their faces, Mayra trying not to look awed by the size and power of the craft.

Arvael was stood upon the ground, feeling the wind blowing over his skin. There was a cold tang to the gale, laced with an icy bite that promised a fierce storm indeed. Arvael was looking forward to it; there was a purity to be found in it, a winnowing away of all that unnecessary or superfluous. It taught one to live in the now, to focus utterly on the task of survival and leave all else aside.

Arvael breathed in the chill wind and said, "The Emperor's Storm looms."

Corac agreed, "I welcome it, especially after all this skulduggery."

Quomas said, "Will be return to the Fortress-Monastery before it hits, I would rather be on the battlements with the rest of the Chapter than out here with these criminals."

"That will rest with Chief Librarian Echeb," Arvael stated, "He may send us home or he may not."

Quomas looked thoughtful and mused, "What concerns me is how the criminals knew we were coming, who tipped them off?"

Arvael formed and inquired, "What are you implying?"

Corac growled, "I don't trust that Caius, he is too casual and lies too readily. He's got an agenda."

Arvael pondered on this then said, "He's a slippery one, no mistake. But the Master trusts him and so must we."

Quomas interjected, "Speaking of which, here he comes."

Arvael looked over and saw a convoy of military vehicles approaching, a pair of PDF Sentinel walkers followed by a reinforced Taurox that flew the Governor's flags from its aerial and another pair of Sentinels. They rolled past a gate in the razor wire perimeter of the landing field and drove up to the Thunderhawk, while the pilots not so discretely tracked them with the Heavy Bolters. The convoy rolled to a stop and the rear hatch of the Taurox opened up to reveal Chief Librarian Echeb.

He was crouched over in the back, the machine not being designed for the bulk of an Astartes, but he adroitly manoeuvred out the hatch and dropped to the ground. The waiting trio made the sign of the Aquila as their master strode up to them and Echeb barked, "Report."

Arvael spoke up saying, "There were complications, your serf waits within."

"I see," Echeb said, "I will take a briefing inside, you wait here and keep guard, there are eyes everywhere."

As the Chief Librarian stepped onto the ramp Arvael dared to ask, "My Master, how did it go with the Lord Governor?"

Echeb paused and the slightest grin tugged at his lip as he said, "He got the point, he shall comply with our will, though he will have to stop crying first."

With that he strode up the ramp, leaving the Acolytes behind. Arvael returned his attention to the area, carefully looking for dangers and marking out cover, firing lines and other matters of important should an attack come. After a few minutes Corac sighed and said, "This is make-work."

Arvael didn't take his eyes off the perimeter but said, "How so?"

Corac explained, "The Thunderhawk's auspex would detect any threats with ease, we're here simply as a way to keep us out of the loop while Echeb and Caius talk."

Quomas ventured, "It is galling, the Master trusts a Serf over us. Despite all our training Caius still knows more than we do."

Arvael commented, "We have our orders."

"Damn it all," Corac spat, "How are we to perform our duties fighting blind in the dark?"

Arvael was getting irritated now and fixed his Brother with a fierce glare as he spat, "Are you questioning orders?"

Arvael could see the struggle in Corac's eyes, his indignation warring with his hypno-indoctrination, the implanted compulsion to follow any order. It looked intense but in the end the potent conditioning won out and Corac stated, "No, I am not."

"Good," Arvael stated with finality, "We each have our place in the Chapter, the Master's is to command, ours is to obey. That is the order of things."

Corac looked sullen but Arvael's attention was taken up as a trio of cargo-6's pulled up outside the perimeter of the spaceport. A motley assortment of people jumped out and gathered round the razor wire, holding up placards and shouting loudly. A knot of local Constables moved to intercept them with wooden batons in hand but the crowd refused to be moved away.

Arvael looked over and saw the crowd were made up of angry people, not criminals or soldiers, mere workers and labourers, men, women and children. They looked ragged, in torn clothes and many seemed malnourished but the fire in their eyes spoke volumes. These people had been pushed too far and now they wanted to push back.

Quomas looked on and said, "What's that about?"

Arvael had tuned in his enhanced hearing and said, "It's a protest movement, they are shouting about the corruption of the Lord Governor, unfair taxes and removal of worker's rights. They seem to think Echeb's meeting was about bringing the Chapter's might to stamp down on resistance here."

Corac sounded incredulous as he said, "They seriously think that the Chapter would waste its time on a labour dispute, as if we care for worker's rights. How self-deluded are these fools?"

Arvael said, "They're scared and angry, the Lord Governor's corruption is well known. Somebody was bound to push back sooner or later."

The voices from the crowd started getting louder as the Constables began grabbing at bodies and people struggled to resist. From the crowd one man with an unkempt beard and wild eyes started shouting louder than ever, hurling insults at the Constables, the Lord Governor and the Storm Heralds.

Quomas started as he heard the man and he snarled, "Did you hear that, he insults the Chapter itself! He will die for that!"

"Hold!" Arvael barked fiercely, "This is beneath our notice; our honour cannot be impugned by such mongrels. The Constables will break this up; we do not need to act."

Unfortunately at that moment the wild-eyed man spotted the Acolytes and the arcane runes on their robes and he cried, "Witches!"

The crowd took up the cry and in moments the whole mood changed as the people screamed over and over in hate and vitriol, "Witch, witch, witch, witch, witch!"

Arvael felt the scene turning against them, if this was allowed to continue then there would be violence. He knew that these people posed no threat to them but they would be unlikely to survive the inevitable reprisal. Arvael didn't want that, he was sick of slaughtering the helpless today. He would do it if it was unavoidable, but he didn't want to.

"Brothers," Arvael said, "This is getting ugly, perhaps we should…"

At that moment there was a ringing crash of boots on metal and Echeb descended the ranks spitting, "What is this racket?!"

"A civilian protest," Arvael began to say.

But Echeb's eyes scanned the perimeter and he growled, "Never mind, you three follow me and learn how to deal with the likes of these wretches."

The Chief Librarian set off at a brisk stride, crossing the Ferrocrete toward the gate in the razorwire. The crowd saw him coming and division broke out among them, some cowering away while others only shouted more fiercely and hefted loose stones. Their bravado wilted however as Echeb exited the gate and turned to approach them, fixing them all with a terrifying glare.

He cut a terrifying figure in his ornate power armour, his staff held tightly in a grip that could have engulfed a man's skull. His face was set in a grim aspect and his height set him above anyone in the crowd. People shrank back as Echeb marched up to them and he spat in a voice of thunder, "What is the meaning of this?!"

The crowd parted before his ire, people backing away but one resisted. It was the wild-eyed man and he refused to retreat with the suicidal courage of the lunatic. He drew in a breath and spat, "You are purveyors of wickedness, you consort with the corrupt and the Daemons of the Warp!"

Arvael started at that, until he remembered that these people had no understanding of the Warp. To them Daemons were just fairy-tale myths, spouted by Ecclesiarchy preachers as dire fates awaiting those who refused to fill their coffers. None of these people knew Daemons actually existed, for if they did then the Inquisition would burn this continent to the ground to silence them.

Echeb's response was to lean over the man and growl, "Do you know what I could do to you?"

The man must truly be mad for he barked, "Stay back witch, you shall not lay a curse upon me!"

The air took on a cold tang around Echeb and it felt like icy shards were forming in the very air, making the crowd shiver and hug themselves. Then suddenly Echeb moved, blurring as he pounced with shocking speed. His head shot forward and he craned down, moving in to smack a loud kiss on the top of the man's head. The man panicked and fell down, grabbing his head with his hands, crying as if he had been struck and wetting himself in terror.

Echeb leaned back with a smile while the crowd stood still and silent, then a small boy laughed. A man next to him chuckled and then laughed too then as one the people all started laughing, tears coming to their eyes. All their tension evaporated and suddenly the air of violence was nought but a hollow memory.

Echeb stepped back and said to a Constable, "Let them vent for a minute then send them home, tell them that the Chapter has heard their woes. The Lord Governor will soon be acting to help these people; they have my word on this."

The Chief Librarian marched away and Arvael was confused as he said, "My Master, what was that?"

Echeb said, "Zealots like that can survive any hardship, it feeds their ego to be persecuted but laughter? They can never tolerate being laughed at."

Corac looked doubtful and said, "But you could have obliterated that man with a single word."

Echeb frowned and said, "Your training has given you knowledge but you have yet to learn wisdom. Knowledge is being able to do a thing; wisdom is understanding when you should and should not do it."

Arvael mused upon this as he inquired, "So, are we to return home?"

Echeb replied, "Not yet, you three have a mission to complete first."


	40. Chapter 40

**Captum Ante Chapter 39**

The hot sun burned in the sky, dazzlingly brilliant and burning in a corona of golden rays. It fell upon the endless oceans, making the wave-tops glisten and shine in the blazing lights. The ocean seemed to stretch on forever, an eternity of blue and white that moved and heaved according to strange tides.

Over that endless blue flew a small craft, a dark chunk of grey metal hurtling along on down-swept wings. It was flying high, leaving a contrail of frozen ice from its wing tips as it soared high above the world. Far behind the thunderclouds of the Emperor's Storm dwindled and ahead was only open ocean. Its blunt grey nose and twin engines carved through the air with all the grace of a brick but so potent were its drives that nothing slowed it at all. It was a Valkyrie, an Imperial Guard dropship and it was flying towards its destination like an arrow sprung from the bow.

Inside Arvael was looking about the troop bay, examining the interior with a critical eye. He was currently clad in dark grey carapace armour, somewhat similar to the light armour worn by Scout-Novices. Yet it was conspicuous in that it was blank grey, bereft of colour or any insignia of the Chapter. In fact everything about this transport seemed to be unidentifiable. There were no manufacturers stamps, no items that could be traced back to the Chapter and he would be willing to gamble that if he could peer into the engines cowls he would find that all the serial numbers would be conveniently absent.

From beside him he heard Quomas say over the howling of the engines, "A Valkyrie, the Chapter doesn't use Valkyries, this is wrong."

Corac agreed saying, "Where did we get such a craft, did we recover it from a battlefield or was it forged secretly in the Fortress-Monastery?"

Quomas stated, "If the Adeptus Mechanicus hears about this there will be hell to pay, I've heard that they get really tetchy about propriety technology. The Guard, the Astartes, the Mechanicus, the Sororitas, we each have our own Sacred Machines and they don't like us mixing and matching."

Corac commented, "They think it leads to innovation and invention, the worst crimes the Tech-Priests can imagine."

Arvael thought about it and remarked, "They'd have to prove a connection first, I suspect nothing on this ship would lead back to the Chapter."

Corac fixed him with a glare and said, "Are you being serious? Three Astartes together and you don't think that's a dead give-away where we came from?"

From across the troop bay a voice rang out, it was Caius and he said dismissively, "Not definitively, you could be renegades."

Arvael looked over at their companions and saw Caius and Mayra sitting on the hard racks of the transport, bouncing around as turbulence rocked the craft. Their appearances could not have been more different to before, gone were the casual clothes and dishevelled style. Now they were clad in carapace armour of their own, with dull fatigues and stout boots.

Both of them carried the bulky forms of Needler rifles, with their distinctive twin barrels. These were weapons of stealth and secrecy, using an invisible micro-lasbolt to burn through armour and a hollow needle round, loaded with deadly neurotoxins, to kill any mortal man in seconds. Their skin had been darkened with dark green paint and on their arms were electro-tattoos that seemed to proclaim that they were from the Harakoni Warhawks. The intent being that should they be discovered then they would appear to be deserters from that illustrious Regiment.

Mayra in particular seemed a different person, her demeanour now gruff, hard and resolute. Whatever denigrations her last posting had inflicted upon her buried under a layer of harsh belligerence. Her aura was hard and unforgiving, seeming to Arvael's sixth sense to be akin to a flinty rockslide. Her soul had been carved apart by fell deeds but the shards left behind were hard and unyielding and they retained a razor-sharp edge.

Arvael looked at them and he said, "Since we're going into combat together hadn't you better tell us the mission?"

Caius sighed and said, "Very well, it is time."

He drew a data-slate from a pocket and tossed it over; Arvael activated it and they all looked at it. It appeared to be a schematic of a large mansion complex, set in wide fertile fields. His mind instantly went to work, analysing the data, pinpointing gun positions, and favourable avenues of approach. It would have taken any mortal hours of detailed study to memorise the layout but for an Astartes it was a matter of seconds to create a lasting imprint.

Meanwhile Caius began to say, "For some years now Echeb has been on the spoor of a heretical cult operating here on Lujan II. A nest of Chaos worshippers lurking under our very nose. They have been quiet and subtle, keeping their corruption out of sight and not stirring up much trouble. Every time we identify an agent they instantly cut all ties and go dark. Echeb suspects Psyker involvement at some level to keep them one step ahead. Their modus operandi seems to be collecting certain tainted artefacts, using third parties and off-world contacts to move items here clandestinely. The reason for this and their ultimate goal remains unknown."

Quomas said, "A heretical cult, here on our very homeworld! No wonder the Chief Librarian set all this in motion."

Arvael mused on this and said, "So why now, what's changed to warrant our involvement?"

Caius explained, "Our off-world agents got word to us that the cult has just made a big move. Up till now they have been nothing but dabblers, not much more than a nuisance really, but they seem to have got their filthy hands on something big, really big. They smuggled a Warp-Tainted item onto the planet and spirited it away. They have just leapt from being a nuisance to being a threat, this cannot stand. We have to find whatever they brought here and eliminate this cult once and for all."

Arvael nodded in understanding, the existence of a cult on an Astartes homeworld was a shameful disgrace. No wonder Echeb had been so determined to keep the Inquisition out of this, it would be one more nail in the coffin of a Chapter who already had serious political difficulties with the wider Imperium. Corac looked thoughtful and asked, "So where does the Kamala family fit into this?"

Caius explained, "The Kamala crime family has long been a long-festering canker on Lujan II, they started out as a small protection syndicate for criminals but through a combination of ruthlessness, brutality and blackmail they have become the biggest concern in the criminal underworld. Their involvement is the missing piece of the puzzle, if there is a connection between them and the cult it finally gives us a lead to follow."

Corac frowned and said, "These criminals are an offence, why are they tolerated by the Constables?"

Myra laughed cynically and said, "They own the Constables and the Arbiters are concerned mostly with off-world affairs, they don't care."

Quomas protested, "If we knew of this then why didn't the Chapter step in long ago?"

Caius shook his head and said, "Because it is none of our concern, racketeering, prostitution, theft, drug-trafficking, these do not interest Chapter Master Gorgall. But smuggling Warp-tainted artefacts, he's interested in that. If we can find definite proof that there are corrupted items here on Lujan II, then the Chapter will be stirred to action. A full strike force of Astartes would burn out the criminals, root and branch, not a hint of Warp corruption will be allowed to survive."

Corac commented, "Wouldn't take a full strike force, a couple of squads could obliterate these thugs with ease."

Arvael rolled his eyes at that but he lifted the data-slate and said, "So what is this target?"

Caius explained, "The Kalama family is rich, stinking rich. They used to have estates and manors on the noble's continent of Ka Lua, it's all been abandoned since the invasion but the buildings are still intact."

Quomas frowned and said, "The nobles tolerated criminals in their respectable private playground?"

Myra snorted in mirth and said, "That kind of wealth brings a respectability all its own. Every noble has their hands in some dirty scheme or another, nobody asks where the money comes from in those sort of circles."

Corac looked thoughtful as he said, "Hold on, Ka Lua was left radioactive, why would any sane person risk going there?"

"Well, we are dosed up to the eyeballs on anti-radiation meds and you lads are hardly going to be affected with your implants," Caius explained, "But if this cult is deranged enough to play about with Warp-taint then radioactive fallout is hardly going to worry them."

Arvael pressed for more details, "What makes you so sure that this cult is there?"

Caius shrugged and replied, "Nothing definitive but in my line of work you learn to trust your hunches. My nose tells me that they are there and we shall investigate. Our mission is to land near the manor by high-altitude skydive. Then we shall enter the grounds undetected, find either the item in question or evidence of its location and take it back to the Chapter. The Valkyrie will be waiting for exfiltration when signalled. Stealth will be paramount but it is unlikely that we will go undetected for long. If we are engaged then I am counting on you lads to do what you do best: leave none alive."

Corac nodded, "Sneak in, find the item, kill anything in our way. Sounds simple enough."

"Good," said Caius, "One more thing you should know, this is not an official mission. If I or any member of the team is captured or killed then the Chief Librarian will disavow any knowledge of our actions."

Arvael gulped at that, realising how questionable the mission was. To fight alone and unsupported was one thing, but to be disavowed by one Brother's was another thing entirely. He thought that, for their own sakes, they had better succeed. Then he snorted at his own joke: they were Astartes, failure had never been an option.

Suddenly a red light flashed over their heads and the rear ramp began to whine down, letting in the howling air. Caius stood up and walked over to the ramp where a set of Grav-chutes was waiting. He yelled over the noise, "Get ready, drop in two minutes!"

Everybody else moved up and grabbed a pack, strapping them on. It was rather tight on Arvael's broad frame but he squeezed in regardless. Mayra for her part was briskly fitting the straps over her armoured frame, clearly having done this before. Caius finished his preparations by lowering a visor over his face and he shouted, "Here we go and remember this cult is Warp-tainted, expect the unexpected."

Arvael nodded and checked that his Force Weapon was tightly secured, then the flashing light changed to green and he jumped. Dropping straight out of the Valkyrie to plummet towards the ground, and as the wind clawed at his face he grinned. Proper battle at last, he was looking forward to this.


	41. Chapter 41

**Captum Ante Chapter 40**

The hot sun blazed down from a cloudless sky, burning across the barren and fallow ground. Dead grass and bare trees slowly crumbled into ash as the hot sun scalded the dirt. Once these lands had been lush and verdant, blooming with life thanks to carefully maintain irrigation systems. Those systems had long since failed, left to rot by the fleeing workers who had once maintained these grounds. Now there was only rot and decay here.

The dusty ground was disturbed by a heavy tread, throwing up a small cloud of mould and dead bits of leaf. The source of this was a boot, a large one, capped with plasteel toes. It belonged to Arvael and he was advancing cautiously in the point position, looking ahead for dangers. As he walked his sixth sense was tingling, telling him that the ground was not as dead as it seemed. Everywhere underfoot tiny insects and bugs scuttled, living out brief intense lives blissfully unaware of all that passed. Arvael was given pause by this, by the resistance and fortitude of life itself. It was remarkable in its own way, hammered by radiation, drought and all that the world could throw at it and yet it endured and thrived. Much like mankind itself, set against the perils of an actively malevolent universe.

Arvael shook his head, the teachings of the Librarius had widened his perspective but that could be a drawback in itself. He was here on a mission and he had to be focused on the salient dangers, not musing on philosophy. Arvael focussed upon the path, seeing it rising towards a sharp ridgeline. He crept up the ridgeline and flattened himself to the ground, peering over the crest to gaze beyond. Descending before him was a wide plain of brown grass, shimmering in the heat like the sea. In the heart of that grassland was an extensive manor, with many wings leading off from a central complex. It was obviously a rich noble's home, with ornate gilding over the walls, wide driveways and fluted columns in the style that had been in favour on the Sector capital world Tectum, some three hundred years earlier.

The building had also clearly been the home of someone who was expecting an attack, for there were concealed overhangs, which could hide lookouts and auspex scanners. Decorative minarets doubled as well positioned gun nests and the columns provided excellent cover for defenders. Most tellingly there were tracks in the dead grass that spoke of patrolling guards, they were fresh: the building was still inhabited.

Arvael felt his double pulse accelerate at the thought of combat but he stilled it with a mantra designed to promote calmness and awareness. He waited as he heard the noise of his companions approaching, creeping up behind him with utmost stealth. Caius laid beside him and said, "Report."

Arvael replied, "The manor is inhabited, no doubt about it. But the approach is challenging, no cover and no regular traffic. We're not sneaking in hanging under the bottom of a truck."  
"You read too many melodramas," Caius commented, "How frequent are the patrols?"  
"Stand-by," Arvael said as he drew upon a trickle of power and expanded his vision.

Arvael's point of vision seemed to fly away from him, soaring over the grounds in a heartbeat. His sight covered the entire area and allowed him to perceive the location of every foe. As he had suspected there were lurking guards in concealed positions, waiting for any intruder and around the perimeter patrols walked in regular sweeps, covering every avenue of approach.

Arvael's gore rose as he scented the foul rank stench of Chaos upon these guards, the unmistakable sour reek of the Warp. He closed his vision in and was disgusted to see the mutations and corruption present in their flesh. They were grotesque swollen monsters, with slabs of muscle almost rivalling an Astartes' build and clouds of flies following them everywhere. Their skin was mottled and riddled with blisters, sores and buboes, leaking foul pus that stained the ground black.

Arvael had studied the ways of the Archenemy and recognised the signs of Chaos worshippers, those sworn to the service of the Plague God Nurgle. The bringer of decay and despair, pestilence and rot. This was an offence to every Storm Herald, such corruption could only bring down the wrath of the Chapter in a blitzkrieg of annihilation.

Arvael withdrew to his body, feeling the weight of his bones settle upon his spirit. There was always a trace of reluctance to this, a temptation to remain forever as a free spirit but he resisted it. He was an Astartes, his will was diamond hard and he squashed the impulse back into his subconscious with resolute determination.

Arvael saw that less than a heartbeat had passed and he reported, "The cult is here, they flaunt their corruption openly. Auspex's are actively sweeping and patrols are regular but they lack the manpower to cover every inch of the grounds. If we eliminate one patrol we can open a window of opportunity."

Caius rubbed his chin and said, "A missing patrol will raise alarm bells, we will sacrifice the element of surprise. Unfortunately, I don't see any alternative, we will have to proceed. Everybody stand by, Quomas you must disrupt any auspex in the area. Mayra take position, you will have the shot."

Mayra nodded and slid up to the ridgeline, putting her needler's scope to her eye. Arvael was disquieted by this, the range was long for such a weapon and only an expert marksman could make such a shot. He would have favoured taking the shot himself, or having one of his Brothers do it, but Caius was in command and had made his choice.

Minutes crawled by as they waited for a patrol to emerge and Arvael carefully tensed his muscles one by one, keeping him alert and ready. It was tempting to extend his sight out again and just check where the patrol was but he would not. A Librarian had to be modest and use his powers only when required, a Psyker who flaunted his abilities, who learned to revel in his powers was on the path to damnation. Every time Arvael used his abilities without due cause he became a risk to himself and everyone around him so he put up with it and waited.

After an eternity Mayra whispered, "Target sighted, holding for range." Then there was a soft cough as the Needler spat twice, hurling toxic rounds out into the distance. Mayra stated frankly, "Target eliminated."  
Arvael was impressed by her expert marksmanship but Caius was already barking, "Go, go, go!"

As one the group rose up and dashed over the ridgeline, racing down the slopes towards the distant manor. Caius and Mayra ran fast for mortals but the three Space Marines easily outstripped them. Arvael could feel the waves of power coming off Quomas, interfering with the distant auspex arrays but he could not foil living eyes. If they were spotted then they would be caught in a crossfire and cut down with ease. There were no other options though, all they could do was run and hope.

They had barely made it half-way when Quomas suddenly hissed, "Stop, minefield!"  
Arvael froze in his tracks, one foot poised in the air. Before him the grass was undisturbed and invitingly open but if Quomas was right then it in fact hid deadly danger. Arvael cursed himself for a fool, he had only scryed above ground for threats, he had neglected to peer under the surface of the dirt. An elementary mistake that he would have to pay ritual penance for later on.

Caius skidded to a halt behind them and hissed, "Can you bewitch their spirits?"  
Quomas shook his head saying, "They're simple pressure switches, I can sense the metal but there are no Machine Spirits for me to enchant. There are hundreds of mines and they stretch for fifty feet ahead, and all the way around the manor."

"Warp Hells," Caius spat, "Corac, I need you ."  
"Pardon?" said Corac in stupefaction.  
Caius said, "I want you to shrink the space ahead so we can step over them."

Corac looked stunned and then said, "It doesn't work like that, I manipulate dimensions, I can't rewrite physics. Spacetime is spacetime, I can bypass, fold and direct it but I can not ignore it. Not for myself and certainly not for others."

Caius' jaw dropped and he spat, "You're telling me this now!"  
However Mayra interjected, "Hurry up, we're out in the open here."

"I can do it," Arvael said drawing all eyes to him.  
Caius looked doubtful and said, "You're sure?"  
"I can do it," Arvael said with determination.  
Caius looked doubtful but he said, "We'll have to risk it then, give us sixty feet to be safe."

Arvael nodded and opened the locks in his soul letting the Warp flow into him. He took the power and directed it through his mind, shifting his mental architecture to balance strength and precision. In his mind's eye Arvael saw the forces that bound the universe together, the shining silver strands that made atoms dance and kept galaxies spinning and planets orbiting around their stars. Everything was connected; everything was part of everything else. He didn't have to rewrite physics to move things, he just had to emphasise the fact that objects were already tied to the place he wanted them to be.

Arvael focussed and suddenly Caius' and Mayra's feet lifted off the ground, they hung for a second in mid-air then were thrown across the minefield in one arching motion. They hit the ground and rolled, coming up quickly and resuming their run. Meanwhile Arvael reached for Quomas, who was shimmering with power. The Space Marine had considerably more mass and he was harder to lift than two mortals combined. Arvael refused to yield though and flung Quomas over the danger, letting him drop once safe.

Arvael was caked in sweat now and his mind ached from the effort but he reached for Corac and grabbed him too. For some reason Corac was harder to lift than anyone else, seemingly extending his mass out into strange and unknown dimensions Arvael couldn't see. He redoubled his efforts and opened his mind to its maximum potential, drawing upon more power than ever before.

His soul creaked with the effort and he heard unearthly whispers ringing out from behind the crack in reality, from whence his power flowed. He was attracting the attention of Daemons with this stunt, he had to be fast. Corac practically flew over the minefield as Arvael flung him over it and hit the ground hard in a spray of dirt.

Arvael could hear the Daemons calling his name now but he refused to listen, chanting ancient mantras of revulsion and warding his soul with the Armour of Contempt. He drew one last gasp of power and flung himself over the minefield. He landed with a gasp of weariness and slammed shut the locks in his mind, closing off the flow of power. A part of him yearned to leave the door open, to keep tasting that power but he repressed it with his iron will and the litanies of the Librarius. The chattering of Daemons faded to a faint whisper but did not disappear entirely, it never disappeared, not for any Psyker.

Arvael forced his mind to forget that they were there and shakily rose to his feet. He shared a brief nod with Corac and Quomas and then they were running once more. They dashed for the distant manor and soon found themselves at the foot of its walls, under a narrow window, too narrow for their purposes.

Arvael looked up for a bigger window and found one three floors up, he jumped high and drove his bare fingers into the mortar, punching himself a handhold. He hauled himself up hand over hand, and the others followed, using his handholds to climb. He rose swiftly and was just about to grab the lintel of the window when something occurred.

A piercing wail rang out over the whole manor, screaming alarms over and over. Running feet echoed within the building and shouts arose from angry guards. Caius looked up and shouted, "They've noticed the missing guards, we've been detected. Hurry up and get inside, well have to fight our way into the heart of this place!"


	42. Chapter 42

**Captum Ante Chapter 41**

A rusty cleaver came at Arvael, dripping black poisons from its notched edge. It was being held by a man whose face was covered in blisters, so many that it seemed impossible that he could see at all. His movements were jerky and uncoordinated, almost like he was but a puppet and it was the blade itself that was moving him.

Arvael leaned back and let the blade pass before his face, feeling the wind of its passage. The mutant stumbled and overbalanced, leaving itself vulnerable and then he struck. Arvael channelled power into his Force Weapon and swung it hard. The crystal ball caught the mutant dead on and discharged in a controlled fashion, releasing Telekinetic force. The power shattered half the mutant's bones and flung it away, sending it sailing back to smash into a wall and break every remaining bone in its body.

As the mutant collapsed in a heap Arvael looked around, seeing his companions in mid-battle. They had been beset ever since they had entered the manor but through sheer determination and relentless brutality they were pressing forward regardless. The narrow corridors were awash with blood and the panelled walls were dank and covered with mould, there was a heavy oppressive air to the place and sense of decay that went beyond the visible.

To his right Corac was a blur, his force daggers flashing and cutting a dozen times a second. He was folding time around himself, moving so fast that his opponents could barely react. Mutant after mutant fell before him and nothing could touch him. A few tried to shoot him with crude autoguns and lasrifles but he kept a Fractal shield up and moving around him, intercepting every shot. Any ranged attack that came near him entered the Fractal shield and left it at a ninety-degree angle, deflected harmlessly away from the darting Astartes.

To Arvael's left Quomas was spinning his shock-stave in his hands, the energised metal discharging blast after blast. Every time he struck a foe they would convulse and spasm, losing control of their limbs. He was not slow to take advantage, plunging the razor-sharp tips into eyes and cutting throats with deadly grace. He ploughed through the foe like a ship breaking a wave, leaving carnage in his wake.

Behind them Caius and Mayra were advancing steadily, firing their needlers from the hip. They efficiently covered the flanks and rear, keeping the group from being surrounded. Thankfully the foe still seemed mortal enough to be affected by the neurotoxin rounds and scores of the mutants fell dead around their feet.

Yet despite that the enemy was numerous indeed and pressed in from all directions. Arvael saw a mutant charging at the serfs from behind, with tentacle-arms outstretched. Arvael didn't hesitate, he reached out with his mind and grabbed a fallen blade. His sixth sense shuddered at its touch but with a thought he lifted it and flung it at the charging mutant, hitting it right in the throat.

As the mutant died Arvael breathed deeply, feeling sapped. He had never fought for so long before, nor drawn on his powers during such a protracted engagement. His physical body could fight for days on end without exhaustion but his mind had its limits. Too much power, too quickly and he risked losing control of his abilities. Either through inattention, distraction or carelessness he might drop his defences and let a Neverborn into his soul. Astartes or not he could not defeat such a horror, so he had to husband his power carefully and spend it like a miser.

Arvael had unlocked only the smallest limit of his potential, using just enough to win the fight without exhausting him. It was a delicate balancing act but one he had relentlessly trained at.

It was fortunate that he had not been reckless for suddenly another mutant leapt at him, striking out with a long halberd held in its bloated hands. Arvael risked calling upon a drop more power and formed a Kine-shield over his free arm, using it to block the strike like an ancient warrior would with a wooden one.

The mutant snarled in anger and struck again, lashing out with its halberd. Once more Arvael deflected it with his kine-shield and this time he swung his Morningstar in response. It was a good swing but the length of the halberd meant his reach fell short and he missed.

The mutant grinned evilly and tensed in readiness to strike. Yet Arvael's mind was not as limited as the reach of his arm. He carefully judged the power required for what he had planned and drew a stream of energy into his mind, just enough and not a drop more. With the sudden surge of strength he reached out and grabbed the mutant in a telekinetic grip and then heaved upwards.

The mutant gasped in surprise as its feet lifted off the ground and then it shot straight at the ceiling. Its head slammed hard into the roof with bone-crushing force and the impact snapped its neck in one blow. The mutant fell limp in Arvael's grip and he released its corpse, letting it drop.

Arvael breathed deeply, feeling his mind aching from the prolonged efforts but he could see that this had been the last foe: the way was open. Arvael nodded to his companions and they wasted no time to sprint onwards, knowing that yet more foul creatures could spring out at any moment.

They hurried to the end of the corridor and it opened up before them to reveal a wide garden, set in the very heart of the manor. It was open to the sky and surrounded on all sides by high walls and overlooking balconies. The garden itself was in a state of decay that went beyond mere wilting, it was putrefied, a soggy collapsing mess of dissolving plants and vegetation. Clouds of flies hug over everything, filling the air with a loathsome, hypnotic drone. The air was heavy with decomposition and the smell was so awful that Caius and Mayra had to pull rebreathers up over their faces.

Standing in the middle of that garden was a man, though the word man barely fit the description. He was a bloated, reeking mound of blubber, covered in mouldy robes that didn't conceal his rolls of fat. He had sores and blisters all over his body, which didn't match the wide smile on his face. He was surrounded on both sides by four heavy gun-servitors, fitted with Bolters and Flamers and behind him was a short flight of steps sinking down to the reinforced Plasteel door of a safe.

Arvael's eyes were watering from the stench of decay but the man spread his arms wide and said, "Welcome friends, welcome to the garden of Nurgle."

The word made Arvael's skin crawl, the name itself causing revulsion and bile to rise in his throat as he barked "Silence fiend!"

The nauseating pile of flesh sounded disappointed as he said, "How rude, is that any way to address the great Scythus Kamala."

From behind them Caius spoke up, his voice muffled by his rebreather, "You are the cult leader! The Kamala family aren't just sheltering the cult, they ARE the cult!"

Scythus laughed with a phlegmy tone, "At last he sees! My family are the servants of Nurgle, his blessed messengers. We have long worked to bring the Grandfather's gifts to this world and now at last the blessing is at hand."

Arvael spat, "No, you shall die here filth!"

Scythus shook his head making his wattle chins bounce as he cried, "You cannot touch me fools, the Grandfather will not allow it. Now I have the Necroteuch your days are numbered, all shall know the blessings of Nurgle! All shall bow before me, all shall…"

His words were cut off as all four gun-servitors suddenly swivelled to point at him and opened fire. A torrent of Heavy bolter shells and searing flame hit Scythus from behind and blew him apart, spraying charred chunks of blubber everywhere. The explosions blasted the clouds of flies away and broke the power of the awful stench, making the garden seem almost mundane in its decay.

The shocking move was followed by the Servitors turned their guns on each other. Their blank faces showing no confusion or panic as they calmly blasted each other to scrap, leaving piles of broken metal and grey dead flesh. Arvael blinked in confusion and then he saw Quomas standing next to him, arm outstretched as his power dissipated. Quomas lowered his arm and said, "Throne's sake, was he ever going to shut up?"

Arvael smirked at the remark as Caius stepped forward, he stalked past the smouldering remains of the cult leader and stepped down the few steps beyond. He paused at the safe door and placed a hand on it, saying, "This is it, what we need must be here. We just have to get in."

Quomas followed him saying, "There are many layers of protection and its Spirit is most obstinate. I can weave a glamour to sway it but it will take at least an hour."

From behind them came a sigh and Corac said, "Just let me do it."

Arvael blinked as Corac walked forward and called upon his power. His appearance shimmered for a heartbeat as he shifted his mass into a non-Euclidian dimension. This was not matter-phasing as most would guess; Corac was instead putting himself into a plane where the door happened to not exist. He walked up to the door and stepped through it with ease, suffering no more resistance than smoke.

Arvael stood guard while they waited, watching for new foes. He knew that they had slain many enemies already but surely not all of them. More would be waiting for them as they fought to get out. For a moment he wondered if they would receive glory for this action but then dismissed the idea. This mission was unauthorised, save for Chief Librarian Echeb, the Chapter would never know that they had even been here.

Besides, glory was not a Librarian's lot, that was reserved for their mundane Brothers. Most Astartes were wary and distrustful of Psykers, having been trained to hate and revile the Warp in all its manifestations. The Librarius was no exception, no matter how sanctioned they were they would never be accepted wholeheartedly.

Some Chapters even went so far as to ban Librarians entirely, purging all psykers save Astropaths and Navigators. The Storm Heralds weren't quite so fanatical but Arvael knew that the bulk of his Brothers would rather he stayed in his tower. When they did not call upon him to fight they would prefer to forget that he existed at all.

Arvael's moping was interrupted by the re-emergence of Corac, stepping through the door with a small book in hand. He raised it up and said, "Was this what you were looking for?"

Mayra spoke up to say, "What's wrong with it?"

Arvael knew what she meant, there was a dark aura surrounding the small book. A gravitas that drew the eye and held the attention, like iron filings to a magnet. It was not a healthy attraction; Arvael's sixth sense was at him screaming to be wary, that the knowledge contained within would consume him utterly. The book reeked of tainted Warp potential, like sour milk and just being near it made him want to gag.

Caius pulled free a small silver case from his waist and said, "Don't touch it fool! Here this has been lined with obsidian chips, place it inside."

Corac rolled his eyes in exasperation but did as he was bid and put the book in the case. Caius clipped it closed and as he did so the sour warp trace dissipated. Quomas sighed slightly and said, "Will that be enough?"

Caius nodded and said, "More than enough, when Echeb shows this to Chapter Master Gorgall there will be no possible doubt that heretics are active on Lujan II. The Chapter will move and the Kalama family will be utterly obliterated, not one man woman or child of this tainted bloodline will be allowed to survive."

"Good," said Corac, "Then let's stop wasting time."

"Yes," Arvael agreed hefting his Morningstar, "Let's fight our way out of here and be gone."


	43. Chapter 43

**Captum Ante Chapter 42**

The manor rang with the sounds of fighting, the cries and roars of men and mutants battling with furious abandon. Bellows of rage were mixed with screams of pain as blades met flesh and bodies were broken and smashed apart.

In the heart of the melee Arvael was confronting three foes at once, vile mutants covered in sores and dripping pus from open wounds. They came at him with rusty knives in their hands seeking vengeance for their dead leader. Arvael blocked their attacks with a Kine shield projected over his left arm, the shimmering circle deflecting their blows away. They redoubled their attacks and Arvael felt every impact, yet his shield was as strong as his will and his will was unbreakable.

He responded by swinging his arm wide and channelling power into his Force Weapon. The glowing crystal ball caught the centre mutant in the chest and flared with power. A wave of Telekinetic might flowed out and blew the trio away, scattering them like leaves before the wind. Arvael wasted not a moment but pursued them as they rolled on the floor and he stamped down, breaking each of their necks in turn.

His soul ached from the prolonged use of his powers but there was no time to rest. The party had been under constant attack from the moment they had seized their prize, mutants coming at them from all directions. There had been no option other than to fight their way out, battling for every inch they advanced. Arvael could see Quomas spinning his shock-stave in both hands, striking out left and right in constant motion. Corac was blurring again, slicing and cutting at swollen mutant flesh but no matter how many he cut down more kept coming. The mortals, Caius and Mayra were hard pressed to stay alive, their needlers burning through ammo at a prodigious rate.

Arvael saw another wave of mutants approaching from down a long corridor and he shouted, "We can't stay here, we'll be overrun!"

"What other option do we have?" Corac yelled as he plunged his Force Dagger into a mutant's eye.

Caius yelled, "We have to get the prize out of here, it's all that matters!"

"Take the mortals and go," Arvael shouted as he gathered his power, "Quomas and I will hold the rear-guard!"

"We will?!" Quomas yelped in surprise as he fended off a pair of mutants.

Arvael released his power in a rolling wave, throwing a wrecking ball of force down the corridor. The blast struck the oncoming mutants and bowled them aside like pins, leaving them sprawling upon the floor. Arvael yelled, "Go now!" and Corac led Caius and Mayra past them, skipping over the dazed mutants.

Arvael saw them dash away but his attention was pulled back as the surviving mutants surged into the fray, coming at them with knives and pistols in hand. Arvael and Quomas slammed back to back and fended them off, meeting blows with deadly sweeps of their weapons. The pair were wrecking machines, forged for battle and trained to be the ultimate warriors and they slew countless foes. Yet despite that they were still vastly outnumbered and surrounded on all sides, they could not prevail against such odds.

As the knives flashed all around them Quomas shouted, "I hope you have a plan!"

"Kill them all!" Arvael cried as he swung his Morningstar to keep the foe at bay.

"You call that a plan?!" Quomas yelled as he blocked a knife blow and speared its wielder through the throat.

"It's all I've got!" Arvael roared.

With that the pair threw themselves into the melee, striking out left and right, knives scored across their flesh but they rode the pain and mastered it. In return they lashed out constantly, breaking bones and cutting throats. They wrecked terrible carnage but for every foe they slew two more took their place and they were surrounded by a sea of grinning, diseased faces.

Arvael was fighting as hard as he could but his strength was waning. He had taxed his mind to the limits of its potential; his connection to the Warp was growing unstable and risked breaking out of his control. If he had more power he could break these foes with ease but the risks were too perilous to consider. Soon he would have to choose between death or a far worse fate. He knew which one he would choose, he had seen the consequences of letting the Warp run amok and would die first. If he was to die here then it would be with honour and the knowledge that Corac would complete the mission, there was no finer fate than that.

Arvael dodged a blow from a skeletally thin mutant and struck it with his Morningstar, his power stuttered for a moment but the physical blow was enough to break its spine in two. Arvael was on his last dregs now and could not hold for much longer. He saw a mutant coming at him with a sparking electric cattle-prod in its hands and could barely move to avoid it. But just before it could hit him Quomas reached out with his own power and compelled the cattle-prod to overload, electrocuting the mutant with its own weapon.

Suddenly an idea struck Arvael and he saw a way out of this mess, a way to win the fight without risking his soul. He drew in a breath and yelled, "Quomas, we need to perform the Librarius Conclave!"

Quomas yelled, "Do what?!"

"Librarius Conclave now," Arvael bellowed, "Give me your power!"

Quomas obeyed instantly and reached out with his thoughts, linking them to Arvael's mind. Their consciousness's merged and conjoined in a psychic communion and for a second their minds were as one. Etheric energy thrummed through their union, drawing from two connections to the warp and becoming more than the sums of its parts. This was not their power doubled, this was their power squared.

Power built within the communion, a searing, brilliant star of energy greater than either of them had ever seen individually. It built and built and built and then it was released in one incandescent blast. A titanic shockwave erupted outwards in all directions, shaking the building to its foundations with telekinetic might. The mutant horde was blasted away like they had been hit by a freight train. Bodies flew in all directions, smashing into walls with bone-breaking force. Spines snapped and skulls were staved in as the power overwhelmed the mutants, killing them all in the space of one second.

Arvael and Quomas were left in a ring of broken bodies, surrounded by the dead and dying. Arvael felt the communion ending as their minds separated, leaving him aching from the effort. He gratefully closed the locks in his soul and shut off the flow of power, leaving his soul empty and hollow but at peace. He swayed on his legs as he fought to stay standing, his knees trying to drop him to the floor.

Quomas seemed equally exhausted but stayed upright and said, "We won but what of the others?"

Arvael nodded wearily, knowing he was right and said, "Hurry, we must find them."

Tiredly the pair set off, chasing the route Corac, Caius and Mayra had taken, following a trail of broken bodies. Turn after turn came and went as Arvael felt his physical strength returning but his mind was another matter. He would require much rest and meditation to restore his equilibrium. Arvael turned around one last corner and was brought to a halt, shocked by what he saw before him. He found himself in a long atrium, the grand entrance to the Manor. It was a long passage, lined with fluted pillars and with a large door at the other end that led to the outside world. Yet it was also the scene of a battle, mutant corpses were strewn everywhere and blood had splashed up all the walls.

Corac was leaning against a pillar, holding his Force daggers loosely. He was panting hard, covered in black mutant blood and his own rich lifeblood. It must have been a terrible fight to have taxed his Transhuman physiology so. But that was nothing compared to the sight of Caius, laid out on the ground with a halo of blood puddling around his head from a tiny entry wound. The Serf's face was blank and grey and he had one arm outstretched on the ground, reaching for the slim grey case that held their prize. There could be no doubt at all that he was dead, his life cut short by a deadly blow, but not one made by any crude mutant weapon. Only a precise shot could have done this, the sort of shot that only a needler could produce.

Yet wasn't what made Arvael gasp in horror, what truly shocked him was the sight of Mayra. She was on her knees beside him, rocking back and forth with a horrified expression on her face. Besides her lay her needler, discarded as if she had dropped it without thinking. Mayra looked stupefied and her eyes were on distant horizons as she chanted over and over, "I killed him… why did I do that… I didn't mean to… I killed him…"

Arvael mind reconstructed the scene in moments and realised what must have occurred, Quomas wasn't so quick and said, "What happened?"

Corac pushed himself wearily away from the wall and staggered over on shaky legs saying, "We were ambushed, mutants everywhere. I was slaughtering them but then the mortals started fighting each other, arguing about something. I don't understand, they went crazy like they were out of their minds. They pulled weapons on each other, Mayra was faster… she killed Caius."

Quomas sounded aghast as he said, "But that's insane, how could this have happened?!"

"I know how," snarled Arvael angrily as he strode over to the body, "It's that accursed book, we should never have let the mortals near it. It's corrupted their minds."

"Corruption?" said Corac stepping forward, "Then we should kill her now."

"No!" Arvael barked, "We don't understand, how it has affected her. We need to take her back to the Librarius for examination."

Corac snarled, "Corruption is corruption, we should burn it out!"

Arvael was adamant though and barked, "But what if the corruption's already spread further than we thought? It could have sunk its root deep into the cult and beyond. How much of the population could have been tainted, Chief Librarian Echeb will want to examine her mind to find the answers."

Corac didn't seem convinced and said, "This is folly, she should die. Quomas you can't agree with this madness."

Quomas looked torn between his two Brothers and said, "I… I don't know, maybe."

"This is not up for debate!" Arvael snarled, "We are taking Mayra with us."

Corac grimaced and locked gazes with Arvael as the two engaged in a battle of wills. Corac was angry and impassioned but Arvael's will was adamant and his resolution unbreakable. It galled Arvael to stand against his only friends but the situation was clear, to kill Mayra would quench their anger but he had to ensure that cool heads prevailed here. If his encounter with a Daemon had taught him anything it was that the quick and easy path was often the wrong one.

After a few long seconds of furious glaring Corac snapped off and growled, "Very well, but on your own head be it. Either way, I a m keeping the book away from her."

"Agreed," said Arvael as Corac stooped to pick up the case.

Arvael bent down and picked up Mayra who was still rocking back and forth, repeating the same phrase over and over. Arvael said, "Quomas, bring Caius' body. We won't leave anything behind that might lead to the Chapter. Corac take point and be alert, we don't know if we've got all the mutants yet."

Corac sneered at that and Arvael knew that he hadn't heard the last of this but they set out once more. As they exited the manor Quomas asked, "How are we going to explain this to the Chief Librarian?"

"I don't know," Arvael replied, "but I suspect he knows more about this than we do. We can only tell him the facts and trust that he will know what to do."

With that they left the manor behind, heading out to meet the Valkyrie and leaving this nest of corruption behind and facing an uncertain future ahead.


	44. Chapter 44

**Captum Ante Chapter 43**

The hot sun fell upon the Librarian's tower, making its dark stonework glisten and shine. Its shadow stretched out far behind it, falling over a mile of ground and several lesser buildings. Amid the bustling crowds of Serf labourers it was noticeable that people would go out of their way to avoid that shadow. Folklore held that to walk in the Librarian's shadow brought ill-favour and few in the superstitious Imperium would discount such talk.

High above those crowds, in the Chief Librarian's apartment at the very top of the tower, Arvael was waiting upon a meeting. He was stood quietly in the corner, holding a ewer of wine as he observed all that occurred. As he waited he could not help but reflect that this was quite a change. Only a few hours ago he had been fighting for his life, now he was acting as a servant. He did not resent it though; such was the life of an Astartes. Duty called them to many strange positions and they could not waste time lamenting their lot or brooding. All they could do was serve as they were called to.

Arvael observed Chief Librarian Echeb sitting behind a rounded table in his blue robes. Opposite him was a stranger, one Arvael had not met before. He had a harsh, unforgiving face and was clad in cream robes, marked with the signs of the Apothecarion. He was Lessall, Chief Apothecary of the Storm Heralds and if the gossip was to be believed, the Chapter Master's greatest political rival.

Arvael had heard dark rumours regarding this, even in the Scout company word had it that the feud between the Masters was deep and bitter. The root cause seemed to be the contentious issue of whether or not to worship the Emperor as divinity. Chapter Master Gorgall was moderate and rational; he held to the old traditions of veneration just short of actual worship and prized cooperation with Imperial authorities. Lessall's faction disagreed; they held that the Emperor was divine, which they took as license for the Chapter to do as it pleased. Even those few restrictions placed on Astartes Chapters by the Lex Imperalis were too onerous for their tastes.

Arvael mused on this as he heard Lessall saying, "You were right to bring this to us, the existence of such a cult is an affront to the Chapter. Had the damned Inquisition heard of this they would have claimed that it was proof we could not manage our own house."

Echeb nodded and said, "The matter is being resolved, Fifth Company has been redeployed from garrison duty to lead the strike. The cult will be burnt out root and branch, no one from the tainted bloodline will be tolerated to survive."

Lessall scowled and said, "A whole Company, a monumental waste of resources. This should never have been allowed to go so far, Gorgall has been slothful and lax in his vigilance."

Echeb showed neither concern nor approval at that remark as he said, "It is hard to see how we could have acted sooner, the intelligence as only just been revealed to us."

Lessall leaned forward and said, "Tell me how did you learn of this cult?"

Echeb picked up a goblet of wine and toyed with it as he said evasively, "We of the Librarius hear many things, some more palatable than others."

Lessall smiled slightly, making Arvael wonder what he knew of Echeb's network of agents, then the Apothecary said, "It must be hard working under the yoke of the Lex Imperalis, so much you could do that is forbidden by blinkered fools. You must chafe at being bound so by dusty laws."

Echeb drained his goblet and said, "The Librarius can manage its own affairs, we need no assistance in that regard."

Lessall grimaced and said, "But surely Gorgall's kowtowing to those quill-pushers on Terra must tax your patience. We are superior to them in every way, we should be leading this Imperium, but Gorgall is content to serve. His moderation is an affront to our dignity, to our purity."

Echeb waved his goblet and Arvael stepped up to pour a fresh glass as he heard the Chief Librarian say, "I find it interesting that you of all people talk of purity."

Lessall froze, then he said warily, "I don't know what you mean."

"Oh?" said Echeb, "So your order is not violating its sacred trust to safeguard our genetic purity. You are not conducting forbidden experiments on our recruits and gene-seed?"

Lessall jaw clamped shut but Echeb wasn't done yet, "Tell me, how many neophytes do you kill for each stable visionary you produce? Oh yes, I know all about your attempts to produce the gene-flaw on demand. Your order has abandoned your sacred trust and we will be no part of it. Leave your agenda at the door; we shall not be party to your bid for power."

Lessall frostily rose and turned his back, stalking out of the tower without so much as a word. Arvael watched him go and was bemused. Meanwhile Echeb sighed and set down his goblet saying, "Sit down and give me your assessment."

Arvael did as he was bid, he thought about it and said, "He was attempting to recruit the Librarius to his political faction."

Echeb eyeballed him and said, "Too obvious a conclusion, try to think about what was unspoken, the body language and tone of voice."

Arvael mused on it and said hesitantly, "Lessall said the words… but there was no conviction in him. He wasn't really trying to recruit us, he was merely trying to establish our existing position."

"Better," Echeb replied, "Understand that both sides have made tentative approaches but neither really wants us. They just want to make sure that we aren't about to join their rivals."

Arvael said, "So whose side are we on?"

"Neither," spat Echeb with a glare, "Our duty is to guard against the Warp, not argue about politics. We keep out of petty feuds and do not get involved."

Arvael was unsure of that and said, "But a word from us could…"

"Could what?" Echeb barked, "Influence decisions, dominate hearts and minds, seize control of the path the Chapter takes. No, no we cannot do that, never that. It is not the place of the Warp to rule men's hearts, our place is to serve. That is why we do not get involved."

Arvael sighed and changed the subject saying, "So… was that why our mission was necessary, to unite the feuding sides?"

Echeb nodded slowly and said, "Yes, the Necroteuch was exactly the proof we needed to unite the Chapter through action."

Arvael said, "But at great cost, your serf was killed and another turned against us."

Echeb commented, "Yes that is troubling, Caius' death is most vexing. This must be investigated, Mayra's mind has been altered by something and I intend to find out what."

"We thought it was the Necroteuch," Arvael ventured, "I could feel its power but I don't understand it."

Echeb stared at him long and hard, and Arvael sweated under the fierce glare, then the Chief Librarian said, "The Necroteuch is an ancient grimoire of tainted knowledge, one forbidden to all on pain of death. The Imperium has declared every copy obliterated a dozen times over but it is like a cockroach, more copies just keep appearing where least expected. Its corruption is strong, so strong that it can ensnare unguarded minds and pollute them with a touch."

Arvael asked, "Then was it wise to bring it here, should we not have burned it?"

Echeb looked surprised as he said, "You would burn a book?"

Arvael swallowed but refused to back down saying, "Did you not teach us that some knowledge is inherently tainted, that certain truths should be buried. I do not know what it feels like to be shot by a plasma gun but I know it is dangerous and to be avoided. If this book is so vile, why keep it?"

Echeb pondered for a moment before saying, "To destroy knowledge is abhorrent, yet sometimes necessary. We are keepers of the lore but must remember our own history. The lessons of Magnus the Red's folly and the fall of Tizca show us that there must be limits on our reach. That some things are forbidden for a good reason. Perhaps the Necroteuch shall be burned but I will not do such a thing until I understand the scale of the threat, how dangerous it really is. Until then it shall remain in the Bibliotheca Damnatorum, under lock and key."

Arvael nodded and asked, "My Master, what of Mayra?"

"The serf's thoughts are clouded," Echeb answered, "She confesses her crime, over and over in her cell. There is something wrong with her mind, something I do not yet understand. I must explore this further."

Arvael dared to ask, "Can I see her?"

Echeb's eyebrow rose and he said, "For what purpose?"

Arvael explained, "I wish to understand how she was corrupted so easily, what made her so vulnerable."

Echeb replied stonily, "That knowledge is beyond your training and remit, I shall investigate this myself."

"My Master," Arvael protested, "I was there, I felt the waves of filth coming off the book. Surely I am best placed to investigate this."

Echeb's face grew frosty as he said, "I said no, you shall play no further part in this."

"But," Arvael insisted.

"I said no!" Echeb barked with ire in his tone, "You have your duties and you shall return to them. You shall speak no more of this affair and if questioned then you shall deny all knowledge of these events, it shall be as if it never happened. Is that clear?"

Arvael lowered his head and said, "Yes, my Master."

"Good," Echeb growled, "Now you are dismissed, I do not want to see you again until you have completed your assignments."

Arvael stood up and bowed stiffly then turned to leave. He walked down the long stairs, passing the Librarian's quarters and kept heading down, all the while clenching his jaw in anger. At the great Librarium he paused, then left the stairs. He hastily made his way through the winding avenues of bookshelves, leaving the regular routes behind and the drifting servitors and clerics therein.

When he reached a section that was heavy with dust he pulled a bookshelf aside and stepped into a dark alcove behind. Within that space he found Corac and Quomas, waiting impatiently. They were also in robes and looked eager to hear the news. Arvael nodded in greeting and said, "You were right, Echeb is keeping things from us."

"I knew it," Corac spat, "Echeb is hiding something rank. There is something rotten here and we need to find out what it is. If corruption has entered the Librarius then it could have spread anywhere, even to Echeb himself."

"How can we pursue this?" asked Quomas nervously, "What can we actually do?"

Arvael said, "We can't talk to Mayra, Echeb's keeping her under lock and key."

Corac shook his head and said, "I wasn't thinking about her, I think we should examine the book itself."

Arvael was alarmed by that and said, "The Necroteuch is in the Bibliotheca Damnatorum, behind impenetrable wards. It's forbidden."

Corac looked exasperated and said, "Don't be a coward, we are allowed in there."

"Only as observers," Arvael stated refusing to rise to the goad, "We can't break the wards."

Corac explained, "I don't mean to, I merely want to see the Necroteuch, to get its psychic scent as it were. If there is corruption in the Librarius then we might be able to trace its extent if we examine the source."

Quomas sounded doubtful as he said, "Do we really have to do this behind Echeb's back?"

Corac growled, "We have no idea how high this corruption goes, if he is polluted what then? No, we need to do this ourselves and be quiet about it. I am going to go down there during the next sleep cycle, are you two with me or not?"

Quomas looked unsure but wilted under the peer pressure and he nodded. However Arvael was less willing to bend and said, "I will come but only if we agree not to defy the prohibitions within that accursed place."

"Very well," Corac said as he rolled his eyes, "If you must be a stickler for the rules so be it, but we are going to do this, yes?"

"It is agreed," Arvael stated, "We will sneak down there tonight and see if we can find the root of this corruption."


	45. Chapter 45

**Captum Ante Chapter 44**

Deep beneath the ground darkness reigned supreme, here in the catacombs below the Librarians' tower where the sun never penetrated. Ribbed arches supported a roof that was covered in wards of abjuration and concealment, the walls and floor were also inscribed with sigils of aversion and silver talismans. Everything was plated in psy-inert obsidian, from the columns to the floor tiles and even the many doors that lined the catacomb's walls.

It was not just psychic defences either for there were also many physical ones. There were layers upon layers of Auspex and biometrics scanners, roving skull-probes and gun-servitors. Lurking cyber-mastiffs sniffed the air and strange machines, shaped like vicious mechanical spiders skittered overhead. They patrolled these halls tirelessly, watchful for incursions and ready to act without a qualm. Worst of all were figures in black armour and full face masks, large enough to be Astartes but with no honour markings or insignia. These were the dreaded black sentinels, whose origin was kept from all.

A common mind would have wondered what could possibly be so dangerous that the Storm Heralds would go to such lengths to keep intruders out. A keener mind would have wondered what could possibly be so dangerous that the Storm Heralds would go to such lengths to keep it in. The wisest minds of all would have concluded that it was best not to know and would have elected to stay well away. This was the Bibliotheca Damnatorum, the Librarius' secret vault, where it hid the most dangerous of artefacts

Through those vaults three warriors were hurrying, dashing from cover to cover as they looked out for the catacomb's guardians. They were clad in plain robes, bereft of hoods. They all knew that hiding their faces was pointless, if they were discovered then they would be shot on sight, their identities wouldn't matter. Among them Arvael was furtively looking up and down the corridors, checking for patrolling defenders. He saw the way was clear and waved his companions onwards, they walked past him and he hissed, "Would you hurry up."

"Calm down," Corac said, "Nobody's here to see us."

Arvael grimaced and said, "Do you know what they will do to us if we are caught here?"

"Nothing as bad as you're imagining," Corac said, "Besides this is just the first level; the really dangerous stuff is much deeper."

Quomas blinked and said, "What, there's more?"

Corac grinned and said, "Yes, there are vaults far below this, ones that are never meant to be opened. Things so dangerous that they aren't just kept secret, their very existence is strenuously denied."

Quomas shook his head and said, "Remind me why we are doing this."

Arvael silently agreed with him but Corac said, "We have to investigate the extent of the corruption, how deeply it has sunk its claws into the Librarius. We have to see the Necroteuch; if we can take its scent then we can trace how far the rot has spread."

Quomas fretted and said, "But why not just tell Master Echeb?"

Corac grimaced and said, "Echeb's the one who worries me. Running a secret spy network, using serf as spies and concealing artefacts, lying to the Chapter. He's neck deep in this corruption; it wouldn't surprise me if this was all a big plot to get his hands on the Necroteuch in the first place."

Arvael wasn't sure he agreed with that conclusion, he knew Echeb was harsh and shrewd but that did not strike him as someone who would risk corruption. But then he thought about the machinations of Chaos, its supreme cunning and insidiousness. Time after time the Imperium had seen its best and brightest turned against it, those one would have sworn were above reproach being transformed into vile heretics. Much of this didn't make sense to Arvael, the secret missions, the death of Caius, Mayra's inexplicable homicide and above all Echeb's refusal to burn the accursed book. If the Chief Librarian was involved, if he was a Traitor, then the entire Storm Heralds Chapter was in jeopardy. They had to find answers and fast, the risks of not acting were too great.

Suddenly Corac stopped outside a door and whispered, "This is it." Arvael looked and saw a black iron door, banded with heavy reinforcing bars. It was covered in sigils and wards, locked with seven silver locks and an encrypted runepad. All around the lintel of the door was a knotwork of symbols, potent defences against psychic intrusion and declarations of warning to any who dared pass within.

Set into the door was a small grilled portal, through which Corac was peering intently. Arvael peeked past him and saw a shadowy crypt beyond. It was laid out like a sepulchre, ringed with fearful icons, dark shadowy corners and engraved images of lament and mourning. Where a coffin should have been was a small pedestal and set upon that was a small book, bound with silver chains. It seemed such an odd thing to house here, so tiny and innocuous for so grand a resting place.

Arvael shook off a terrible sense of foreboding and said, "Right we've found it, now do your thing and let's get out of here."

"Wait a moment," Corac said peering at the wards, "I am trying to figure out how to get through this door first."

Arvael nodded at that for a moment but then the words struck him and he blurted out, "What?! You never said anything about going in there."

Corac rolled his eyes and said, "How else am I going to do this, you agreed with the plan."

Arvael glared angrily and said, "I never agreed to break any wards."

"Don't be so naive," Corac said, "It has to be done, you knew that the second I suggested coming down here. Don't play the innocent."

"Quomas," Arvael appealed, "Tell him this is wrong."

Quomas looked between them and said, "I… I don't know."

"I have it!" Corac cried elatedly and passed his hands over the wards in a strange pattern. They flared brightly for a moment and then died, leaving behind ashen traces. Arvael was stunned by that, he knew Corac was more learned than he, but there was no way Corac should have been able to do that.

Corac then pulled out his Force Daggers, which Arvael didn't know he had brought, and proceeded to break the seven silver locks. He paused at the runepad and frowned then said, "Quomas open this."

Quomas shook his head and said, "I… I'm not sure that's a good idea."

Corac sighed and his hand blurred as he punched a dagger into the runepad, the lock sparked loudly and then spluttered as the door slid open. Corac nodded in satisfaction and said, "Come on then, let's get on with it.

Arvael however shook his head and said, "No, we can't go in there."

"It's too late to turn back now," Corac said, "We are already past the point of no return."

"It's never too late," Arvael snapped, "Look at this door, look at the defences around it. Nobody is supposed to go in there, not now, not ever. There's no telling what you might unleash. There's a line, a limit to how far we should go and this is it. I admit we've skirted that line so far but to step over that threshold is to reject every teaching we've had ever heard."

Corac threw up his hands and declared, "You sound like those pathetic adepts, bleating on about lines and limits. We are Librarians, every time we use our powers we cross a line. You need to embrace that fact, embrace what needs to be done instead of wringing your hands over it."

"Listen to yourself," Arvael pleaded, "It's that book, it's got its claws into you!"

"Oh don't be so melodramatic, there's nothing affecting me," Corac said, "I am your friend and I'm asking you to take this step with me."

Arvael knew he was right, these two were his only friends and they needed to stand together. But then he looked again at the wards and runes around the doorway and knew he was also right to say that nobody should enter that chamber. Arvael was caught in a vice, facing two impossible choices: join his friends or take a stand against what he knew to be wrong.

Arvael drew in a breath and said, "No, I am not going in there."

Corac's face fell and he breathed, "I am disappointed in you… Quomas come on; we will do this without him."

Arvael looked at his Brother, who seemed torn at the choice before him and he said, "Don't follow him Quomas, you don't know what might happen."

Quomas wrung his hands and said, "I'm not sure…"

"For Throne's sake," Corac spat, "Let me go first then."

With that he stepped over the threshold, entering the sepulchre. Arvael was half-expecting a hail of bolter rounds or a blaze of deadly lightning to fall but to his surprise, nothing happened. Corac grinned smugly and said, "See, no danger, come in Quomas."

Arvael looked at him and said, "Quomas don't do it."

Quomas looked absolutely wretched but said, "I'm sorry." Then he too stepped over the threshold, following Corac inside.

Corac nodded and turned towards the heart of the sepulchre, raising his arms to say, "Well then, let's see what we have got."

Arvael protested one last time, "Come out of there right now, if Chief Librarian Echeb finds you…"

From out of nowhere a harsh voice suddenly called out, "Unfortunately he has already found you!"

All three of the acolytes jumped and stared about, looking for the source of the voice. In a dark corner of the sepulchre a collection of shadows suddenly became coherent. Suggestive patches of darkness becoming hard armour plates and hints of light transforming into a grim face with haunted eyes. It was like looking a jumble of clouds and squinting, one's eyes suddenly picking out patterns to form shapes and images.

One second there was a patch of empty darkness and the next there stood Chief Librarian Echeb, in his eldritch plate. He was holding his staff in his hand and his psychic hood crackled with power, but worst of all was his face. His expression was grim, unforgiving, full of anger and every last drop of it was directed at the three acolytes. Arvael felt a wave of trepidation sweep over him, here was the very man they were trying to investigate, armed and armoured. He was severe, he was terrifying, he was absolute and there was not a trace of forgiveness in his face. The conclusion was inescapable: Echeb had clearly got here first and been waiting for them, he had known exactly what they were going to do.

The other's reacted too, Quomas hurriedly backed away from Echeb, almost falling over in his haste to get away from their master. His shoulders slammed into the wall and his eyes were wide as he tried to grasp the implications. Corac for his part stood firm in the face of their master's ire, refusing to show fear or doubt. He raised his Force Daggers and snarled, "How did you get here?!"

Echeb took a step forward, the sound of his boots ringing off the walls as he snarled, "Your plan was obvious, easily predicted. It was clear what you would do next; all I had to do was leave out the right bait. The only question was whether it would be one of you or all three, but I knew that this heresy would reveal itself soon enough."

Corac held up his daggers before him and shouted, "I won't go back, you can't take me back!"

Arvael was confused by that but Echeb's next declaration made his jaw drop, "Did you really think to fool me with such a pathetic charade? It was evident from the first telepathic probe that Mayra was confessing to a crime she didn't commit, that her memory of killing Caius was false. One of you did the deed and then tried to frame her for it. Did you honestly think that I could not tell the difference between her real memories and implanted ones?"

Corac looked at Echeb and something dark passed over his face as he declared loudly, "Well… I did think that it would take you a little bit longer to figure that out."

Arvael heard the words but it took a good few seconds for them to make sense to him. The implication hit him like a bolt of lightning and his world dropped out from under him as he realised that Echeb wasn't the Heretic here: Corac was.

Arvael looked at his wayward Brother and whispered, "Corac… what have you done?"


	46. Chapter 46

**Captum Ante Chapter 45**

The air was fraught with tension, the sepulchre filling with anger and defiance. On one side was a towering edifice of wrath, on the other, guilt and defiance in equal measure. Chief Librarian Echeb was stood in the corner, gripping his staff with two hands, anger writ large upon his face. On the other side was Corac, gripping his Force Daggers tightly in defiance, while Quomas looked like he was trying to sink into the wall in an attempt to get away.

Outside the sepulchre Arvael was aghast at what he was witnessing, the shocking realisation of his friend's heresy still sinking in. He struggled to grasp how this could be and yet at the same time a part of him realised it had been inevitable. Corac had always been the most ambitious of them, the most driven and willing to flout rules. He had revelled in his powers and gloried in their use, his arrogance had been clear to any with the eyes to see.

Corac was speaking, "What have I done: I have dared to live out our creed, to explore all my abilities. I have striven to master every aspect of myself and achieve my full potential, even those aspects this dusty fossil would not have us explore."

Echeb's eyes narrowed and he spat, "You confess to breaking the prohibitions, to seeking out forbidden lore and practising profane Arts?"

"I am proud of it!" Corac declared, "I have seen into dimensions you cannot conceive old man, I can open my eyes to the angles of reality itself. The Necroteuch showed me so much, the second I touched it my eyes opened and I could not believe how much you had kept from us. I have witnessed the spin of the universe and the wondrous clockwork that drives it. I have seen the truth of the Warp with my own eyes and the power that dwells there, power that you would deny to us!"

Arvael was stunned by that declaration but Echeb spat, "From your own lips you are condemned as a Heretic most foul. I declared thee Excommunicate Traitoris and sentence you to death."

Corac merely grinned and said, "Do not test me old man, I have seen more than you know. You cannot match the powers I now wield."

Arvael felt great power stirring and hurriedly drew upon his own connection to the Warp, forming a Kine shield before him. It was barely fast enough, for lightning played around Echeb's hands and then with a flick of his fingers he spat fat bolts of searing power right at Corac's heart. Arvael was stunned by the blast; even behind his Kine shield he could feel the blistering intensity of the flare, the arcing energy surpassing even his wildest imaginations. Faced with the overwhelming power on display he suddenly realised why Echeb was the Psykanna Primus.

Corac however didn't seem fazed at all; he conjured a Fractal Shield before him and intercepted the arcing energy. The lightning bolts entered the shield and left it at a ninety-degree angle to their previous course. They smashed into the walls and blew smoking craters into their surface, gouging into the obsidian walls and forcing Quomas to duck with a yelp to avoid being incinerated.

Corac grinned but Echeb was far from done, he spun his staff over and over in his hands and his psychic hood flared as suddenly a fierce wind blew up from nowhere. The sepulchre filled with a howling gale, impossibly blowing within that small space. There was ice in that wind, wickedly sharp icicles that flew horizontally in the swirling tempest. The ice smashed into walls and tore at the obsidian panels, making a ruin of the sepulchre. Echeb however stood unmoving in the heart of that blizzard, demonstrating firmly why he was known as the spirit of the storm.

Corac tried to block the gale with his Fractal Shield, moving it around his form but there were too many shards to block. They were in the air, they were everywhere. In frustration he dropped his shield and began to blur, folding time around himself as he ran straight at Echeb. Arvael squinted through the howling wind but could barely see him, he was moving so fast. His Force Daggers flashed at eye-watering speed but impossibly, Echeb's staff was already there to block them.

Corac responded by attacking again and again, stabbing and cutting a dozen times a second but Echeb's defence was impenetrable. No matter how fast Corac struck the Chief Librarian was always there first, stopping him at every turn. Arvael realised that Echeb was foreseeing the portents of the future, tracing Corac's movements in the seconds to come. No matter how fast Corac moved Echeb was faster, reacting to his attacks before he even made them. Lightning flared once more and Echeb threw devastating power out into the blizzard. Corac was forced to desperately throw himself to one side, rolling on the ground to avoid being burnt to ashes by the blast of power. He reacted instantly, flipping himself up onto his feet but Echeb roared, "Enough!"

The psychic hood flared and Arvael gasped as he felt his Kine shield fail, the power ripped out of his hands by Echeb's will. It was a Null Zone, Arvael realised, a deadening of all psychic potential in an area. Corac gasped as his power drained away and his movements slowed to merely transhuman. He was stunned and in the suddenly still air Echeb grabbed him by the throat and slammed him into a broken, crumbling wall.

Echeb's eyes held only fury as he snarled, "Prepare to die, heretic."

Corac gasped and then he opened his mouth and made a sound. It was unlike anything Arvael had ever heard, an unword, made not of sound waves but of reality itself. It was a rippling distortion of space and time, a flux in the fabric of the universe. Arvael had never heard of such a thing, it wasn't psychic power; it wasn't anything he had any knowledge of.

Echeb was caught full on by that word and the force of it drove into him like a Land Raider charging at full pace. The Chief Librarian was flung away and sent sailing into the far wall, shattering the obsidian panels into splinters and leaving a crater behind. He fell down to his knees with blood pouring from his eyes and ears, gasping, "A Word of Command, the language of creation… you should not know of Enuncia, nobody should."

Corac was down on his knees too and blood was pouring from his mouth but he spat, "I told you, I have seen more than you know."

Echeb tried to rise but Corac spoke, again and again, sending out waves of destructive power with each Word of Command. Echeb was flung about like a rag doll, smashing into walls and the ceiling with force enough to shatter even his reinforced bones. Finally he collapsed incoherently, spent and broken as blood spread in a pool around his fallen head.

Corac got to his feet and spat out a cluster of broken teeth from his bleeding gums. He picked up his Force Daggers and snarled, "Time to die old man."

From outside the room Arvael felt his power returning, Echeb's Null Zone dissipating as he lost consciousness. Arvael looked upon Corac and did not see his friend anymore, all he saw was a Heretic closing upon his Master. Arvael opened the locks in his mind and drew on the Warp, reaching out to grasp a shard of broken Obsidian. He levelled it horizontally and then flung it right at Corac's back, like a thrown knife.

Corac didn't even look back, he merely held up a hand and suddenly the shard was flying away at ninety degrees, diverted by his Fractal Shield. Now Corac paused and he glanced back, saying, "That was a mistake."

Arvael redoubled his efforts, snatching up dozens of shards and flinging them at Corac but not one came close to his skin. Arvael shouted, "Quomas help me!" But the other Brother held back, wracked by indecision and unable to pick a side.

Corac sighed and said, "Really this is getting pathetic, let me show you how outmatched you are."

Corac blurred and before Arvael could react the other warrior had collided with him, sending him back like he had been hit by a wrecking ball. Arvael snarled as he felt a sharp pain stab into his shoulder, it was a Force Dagger, tearing at his muscles. Arvael fell down, clutching at his wounded shoulder and wishing fervently that he had thought to bring his own Force Weapon.

Arvael looked up at his wayward Brother and hissed, "You didn't kill me, what's the matter, run out of words?"

Corac spat a gobbet of blood and said, "Words of Command are difficult to use but then I wasn't trying to kill you. I want you to join me."

Arvael scrambled backwards and formed a Kine Shield as he spluttered, "Join you… Never!"

Corac sighed, "Just think about it for a minute, think of the potential you're throwing away. There is so much more out there than that old fool wanted you to know. Come with me, read the Necroteuch, just one page and you will see what I mean. You could be so much more than a mere Librarian, you could be glorious."

Arvael fixed his resolve and uttered, "I do not crave glory, I seek only to serve."

Corac tutted and said, "I'm afraid that I must insist."

With that he held up a clawed hand and Arvael felt his insides erupt into liquid fire. He screamed in agony as his body was contorted and pulled in every direction, folding in ways it was never meant to. Astartes were designed to resist pain but this went beyond such mundane sensations, this was reality itself contorting within him.

Corac lowered his hand and said, "That's what it feels like to have the dimensions folded inside your body, yield now or you will experience it again and again."

"Never!" Arvael shouted but then Corac made a grasping gesture with his hand and Arvael screamed and screamed and screamed as space was deformed inside him. The agony became all he knew and his existence shrank into a world of pain.

Corac grasped again and again then finally paused and said, "Join me Arvael; you can't imagine the knowledge at my fingertips, the power!"

Arvael was lost in unfathomable agony but he could still see clearly and what he saw caused him to laugh, in a coughing fitful manner.

Corac frowned and said, "What's so funny?"

"You are," Arvael gasped between wracked breaths, "All that power, all that knowledge and you still haven't learned wisdom."

Corac stamped forward angrily and barked, "You dare mock me!"

Arvael laughed, "Wisdom eludes you fool: you can't even grasp the simplest of truths."

Corac raised his hand with rage building in his face and said, "What is this precious wisdom you harp on about?"

Arvael looked up at Corac and declared loudly, "A wise man does not turn his back on an enemy whom still draws breath!"

Corac's eyes widened and his jaw dropped in horror, he tried to turn around but before he could move two blue-armoured gauntlets slammed down on either side of his head. It was Chief Librarian Echeb, his face covered in blood and his eyes blazing with eldritch power as he channelled lightning bolts between his two palms. Corac's body went wild as thousands of volts of electricity coursed between his temples. His limbs thrashed violently as his synapses and neurons were fried, blasted apart by the cascading lightning ripping through his brain. Blood poured from his eyes and his face went slack as drool ran from his lips. Corac's skin blackened and a foul odour arose as his flesh seared from the bone, then at last his hearts stopped and he died.

Echeb held on for long seconds afterwards, burning out the Heretic's brain and roaring his anger for all the world to hear. Then at last he let go and Corac's corpse fell to the ground, dead and lifeless. Echeb swayed for a second then he fell down too, making a clatter of plate as he drifted into unconsciousness.

Arvael pushed Corac's charred remains aside and dragged himself up to Echeb, feeling like his guts were going to spill out every inch of the way. Arvael found that the Chief Librarian was still breathing and blessed the Emperor, divine or not, for his Master's intervention. Then he reached into his gorget and activated the vox link shouting, "Emergency alert, Master Echeb has been attacked. We require immediate medicae assistance!"


	47. Chapter 47

**Captum Ante Chapter 46**

In the topmost level of the Librarian's tower Arvael waited, standing to attention in his Master's apartment. He had just been released from the care of the Apothecaries, who had seemed quite baffled as to why he was there. Upon examination they had been unable to find anything physically wrong with him. Arvael had tried to explain to them what having dimensions folded inside one's body felt like, at which point they had become rather keen on discharging him and sending him somewhere else, anywhere else. Talk of Warpcraft usually had that effect on most people.

Arvael had trudged back to the tower and waited to be summoned by his Master. Eventually the call had come and he had made his way up, until he finally stood at the door to Echeb's quarters. Through the gap he could see Echeb sitting at his low desk, legs crossed. The Chief Librarian looked extremely worse for wear, badly bruised and with scabs all over his unarmoured frame. Yet his spine was straight and his will unbroken by recent events.

With him was Mayra, who was attending upon him. Arvael was surprised to see her in Caius' former position but her spirit was strong. She had endured countless degradations in her former posting, then battles, combat and the manipulation of her memories. That last one truly stood out, Corac had done more than violate her body, as so many others had, he had violated her mind. It was a truly shameful mark against the whole Librarian order and a testament to Mayra's spirit that she had recovered after the memory implant had been extracted.

Arvael could hear them talking, arranging certain affairs and dealing with the aftermath of recent events. It seemed Mayra would be taking on the role of the Chief Librarian's personal equerry, a role Arvael didn't begrudge her. She would also be taking over as the head of the network of agents, a task that would test anyone to the limits.

Eventually Arvael heard his name being called and stepped inside, bowing low to his Master. Echeb rose stiffly to his feet and said, "Arvael, you seem hale."

"I am physically restored my Master," Arvael replied, "The spiritual wounds however linger."

Echeb eyed him and said, "Yes, this has been a harrowing affair, the treason of one of our own strikes at the core of us all."

At that Mayra muttered, "Good riddance."

Echeb scowled but said, "I am glad that you managed to avoid his fate."

Arvael blinked and asked, "Was that likely?"

Echeb frowned saying, "When I realised that Caius' death was caused by one of our own I expected to have to execute all three of you. Yet I heard your words in the vaults, your refusal to countenance corruption. I am satisfied that you played no part in Corac's Heresy, you are pure and your life shall be spared."

Arvael gulped, he had not realised that his life too hung on the scales. He shook off the chill running down his spine and asked, "My Master, do we yet understand Corac's treachery? Where did it spring from, what was the root of it?"

Echeb sighed deeply and said, "A question I was going to put before you. It is possible that the Necroteuch defiled his spirit, that this was the work of an outside influence penetrating his mental defences."

Arvael caught the suggestive tone and shook his head sadly saying, "No, this was always in Corac. He was always too ambitious, too covetous and grasping. He did not respect the power he wielded because it was never enough for him. The Necroteuch may have been a catalyst but he was always on this path."

Echeb said, "I find it interesting that you presumed I was the author of this heresy."

Arvael felt a hot flush and blurted, "The evidence seemed to suggest you were the most likely candidate."

Echeb replied, "Then it seems that you have learned the most important lesson of the Librarians."

Arvael frowned in confusion and said, "How so?"

Echeb sighed deeply and said, "You have seen through the paltry glamour of friendship, to witness the truth. It is our duty to be ever vigilant for taint and corruption, most especially among ourselves. Always we must be prepared for the day when one of our own turns to Chaos and stand ready to do what is necessary. You will find peers and colleagues here but no friends. You must always remember that you may well have to execute any one of them should they stray too far and they will be watching you in turn."

Arvael heard the words and knew it was true; his role was to stand guard against the Warp. There could be no compromises in that task, no exceptions, not even for his closest friends. Arvael changed the subject saying, "So what now?"

Echeb looked at Mayra and said, "My equerry and I were just discussing that. The Chapter Master is aware that something occurred below but not what."

Mayra said, "Thankfully he is busy supervising Fifth Company's purge of the last dregs of the cult and will not press matters. He is smart enough to know that there are certain things he doesn't want to know, especially when Psykers are involved."

Arvael inquired, "And the Necroteuch?"

"Burned, as I always intended," Echeb answered, "It is far too corrupt to allow to exist. The ashes shall be fired into the local star just to be safe."

"Then this matter is closed," Arvael said gladly.

"Not quite," Echeb said, "There is one more issue to deal with."

Arvael frowned but then he heard the sound of boots on the stairs. He turned as saw a pair of bulky figures in midnight carapace armour, the dreaded Black Sentinels, climbing up to the apartment. Between them was the bedraggled figure of Quomas, who was bound and chained and looked utterly miserable. They marched to up to Echeb and silently halted, waiting for orders.

Echeb looked down at the prisoner and growled, "This acolyte stands accused of Heresy and treachery, of following the path to damnation and he must be tried for his sins. You shall do this now."

"Me?" gasped Arvael, "Why me?"

Echeb picked up two items from his desk, one a small key for Quomas' chains, the other a short knife. He held them out and said, "A Librarian must determine the fates of many, judge who is corrupt and who is pure. You must learn to sort those who can be redeemed from those whose sins are unforgivable. His life is now in your hands."

Arvael took the items and weighed them, feeling the dread responsibility settle upon him. He had known this duty would come but he had never expected it so soon and never to be performing it on his last remaining friend. Arvael turned to Quomas and said, "What plea do you enter?"

Quomas' eyes bulged and he said, "Arvael please, you can't be serious."

Arvael felt his hearts grow heavy as he repeated, "What plea do you enter?"

Quomas squirmed in his guard's grip and begged, "It wasn't my fault, I was led astray. I trusted Corac but he lied to me, just as he did you. I didn't want to be part of any Heresy; I only wanted to do what was best."

Arvael replied, "You should have known better."

Quomas nodded frantically and said, "You're right, I made a mistake. I can do better, I want to do better. You have to let me try to redeem myself, you're my friend, you have to let me try…"

His words were cut off as Arvael's hand shot forward, ramming the knife into Quomas's throat, plunging it up to the hilt. Quomas's eye's bulged in shock and horror as blood ran down his chest. His mouth gaped silently for an eternity and then the light fled from his eyes and he died.

Arvael released his grip on the knife and he looked on silently as his last friend died. His hearts broke but he refused to show grief for a heretic, he had to be stronger than that.

Echeb had watched the whole scene and showed neither condemnation nor approval of the decision, content merely to observe. He drew in a breath and calmly, as if asking for the reasoning behind a student's statement, said, "Explain your rationale for this execution."

Arvael whispered with a hitch in his voice, "Quomas was always weak. He was diffident, indecisive, unable to choose a path for himself. He let peer pressure lead him into actions he knew to be wrong. If he could not say no to a friend then how could he say no to the temptations of a Traitor or a Daemon? He did not cross the line first but he was willing to follow another over it. He chose to compromise and there can be no compromise with the Dark Gods, one must either reject them utterly or be damned. He was on the first step of a long road but it was one that would inexorably lead to Chaos."

Echeb nodded and said, "Your analysis is correct, Quomas never had the fortitude to serve as a Librarian. In another life he might have proved to be a competent Initiate, if well led, but I knew that he would not reach the requirements for being a Librarian. We are held to a higher standard than our brethren, a most terrible and fearful measure that few are able to endure."

Arvael had no words for that, he turned away and stalked across the room. Echeb spoke to Mayra and said, "Dispose of that and get these floors cleaned."

As the serf took the corpse away Echeb followed Arvael and quietly said, "I know that was hard, trust me I know, but it had to be done. Many times I have to weed out the impure and the weak from our ranks, it is a duty nobody ever seeks but one that we must perform. Today you have shown the iron will and unflinching resolve necessary to become a Librarian and as such I am officially elevating you to the rank of Lexicanium."

Arvael blinked in surprise and then he spat in disgust, "I didn't do that to pass some test or for your approval!"

Echeb nodded and said, "I know, that is why you are ready, in spirit at least. Your education shall continue, a Librarian's education never ceases, but henceforth you shall wear the armour and the psychic hood. This is my decision and my gift."

With those words a cabinet opened in the back of the apartment, revealing an armour stand inside. Upon that stand was a suit of blue armour, covered in wards and runes. It was an ancient relic, lovingly maintained and restored, thrumming with potential energies from psy-reactive crystal inlays. On one shoulder pad was the spiral in a starburst icon of the Chapter and on the other a fearsome horned skull, with a sword plunged straight down through it as if in execution. Over the gorget rose an arcane psychic hood, of the rare Hellfire pattern, a model not produced in millennia.

Arvael looked upon it and breathed, "Mark IV, Maximus pattern."

"Yes," Echeb replied, "A relic of the Librarius, reserved only for those who have banished a Greater Daemon. It has not been worn for a thousand years but now you shall bear it into battle."

Arvael's breath was taken away by the sight but he felt no triumph at this, it had come at too high a price. He shook his head and said, "I do not deserve such a reward."

"That was not a request," Echeb growled, but then softly he said, "This is no reward but a burden, one you must bear for you are strong enough. Let it always be a reminder of the terrible standards we are held to and the fate of those who fall short."

Arvael bowed and said, "I shall do so my Master and I shall not forget this, any part of it."

"See that you do not," Echeb said firmly, "Now go summon the armourers to fit you into your new plate and speak of this day to no one."

Arvael bowed and turned to leave, however at the doorway he was paused by Echeb saying, "One more thing."

"Yes, my Master," Arvael asked.

Echeb sat down at his desk and declared, "There may yet come a time when I too fall short of the mark, on which day I expect you to be ready to show the same unshakable resolve that you did here today."

The End


End file.
